


Misfire

by yuma (yuma_writes)



Category: Emergency!
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Protectiveness, Rescue Missions, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuma_writes/pseuds/yuma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No rescue is ever simple, especially with a killer on the loose out to kill DeSoto. Now one of their own needs rescuing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this gets a bit more _Adam-12_ than _Emergency!_ I fear but gonna give it a try anyway because I was watching Fifth season's _'Tycoons'_ and there is a scene at the end which WOULDN'T LEAVE ME ALONE. For crying out loud, do ya know how annoying that is? LOL.

_"Station 108, Station 51, Ladder 17. Structure fire. 215 Grand Boulevard. Two one five Grand. Cross street Coulson. Time out 634."_

_"Station 108."_

_"Station 51, KMG 365."_

_"Ladder 17, KMG 563."_

Roy pulled the squad up across from the scene, making a face as he squinted through the haze of gray smoke that hung around the streets and the wide-eyed, pointing bystanders.

Chet already had his arms shoved through thick loops of inch-and-a-halves. The stocky fireman lumbered determinedly away from their engine, unraveling lines of flat hose. Within minutes, with Engine 108's firemen doing the same, a scurry of tan turnout coats and black helmets, the ground looked like a giant bowl of Marco's spaghetti had spilled out onto the streets.

"Roy, I think I see people." John pointed to a third floor window with a frown. He hopped out of the squad, yanking the bay door open from his side. 

By the time Roy got the squad into park, John was already pulling on a face mask and shouldering his yellow tank.

_"Station 51, Engine 108. Come around to the south side of the building. Ladder 17, vent the roof."_

_"Engine 108."_

_"Ladder 17."_

Cap's orders rang out of their handie talkies as Roy shrugged on his own gear. He jogged alongside John towards the agitated bald man in a soot-streaked green suit, gesturing and pointing as he spoke with Cap.

"John. Roy." Cap flicked a dark look towards him but Roy knew it wasn't for them. "Building manager here thinks some of the people on the third and fourth floor can't get out."

Unbidden, Roy's eyes traveled up the building to the flames shooting from the second floor. Fire licked higher, stretched hungrily for the third floor. He bit back a grimace.

"I saw some people on three," John volunteered. He turned to Roy. 

Cap waved down the other squad, holding up three fingers. "Squad 108 can get three."

Roy nodded as he pulled on his gloves. "We'll get four."

Cap gave them an aborted nod and a hand gesturing towards the building. It was all he could spare, already turning around to direct Marco and Chet to another hot spot. But Roy and John didn't need further instructions.

As soon as Cap moved, Roy and John ran towards the fire, their strides matching and quickening as they crossed the burning threshold.

 

 

_"Engine 51, HT 51. Squad 108 reports third floor has been cleared."_

_"10-4, 51."_

By the time they reached the fourth floor, John and Roy were drenched in sweat. Even with the spray from the hoses, the vapor from quickly evaporating water on the second floor was hot enough that John found himself blinking hard to keep the sweat from dripping into his eyes. There was a brief moment where he was sorely tempted to pull his mask up, wipe his face dry and clean the condensation off the face shield. But it was only a brief moment. Eating smoke didn't have any appeal. 

Roy was banging with a gloved fist on the door in the middle of the hallway. "Fire department!"

John did the same with his end of the hallway. He hammered 410 with a fist over and over until it ached. "Fire department! Anyone in here?" 

Even though there was no answer, John broke the door down with his pry bar. He could hear Roy mimicking him, breaking in with a few sure strokes of his ax.

Roy stuck his head out into the hallway. "Nothing!"

"Same here!" John reported. He coughed, heard Roy do the same. Then they moved to the next doors.

"Fire department!"

"Anyone in here! Fire department!"

"Fire depart—Johnny! Got a live one here!"

Despite the thick smoke, John knew exactly where Roy was; he'd been placing his partner in the map he drew in his head each step of the way. He was certain Roy did the same.

Still, it came as a shock when his hands, waving out in front of him in a search pattern, bumped into Roy sooner than he expected.

"You got him?" John had to shout to be heard behind his mask. He gripped Roy's coat by the shoulder, ready to transfer the body from across Roy's shoulders.

"Yea." Roy gave John a short wave. "Rest of the floor clear?"

"No one else I saw." John gave an uneasy glance over his shoulder. The urge to check again never really went away.

_"HT 51, HT 108. Request assistance on three. Man trapped."_

John caught Roy's eyes widening behind his mask. He gestured downstairs with his handie talkie. "Go. I got this."

"You sure?"

"Yea, I'll be all right."

With a grunt, Roy hefted his charge higher on his shoulders. John followed closely behind, eyes glued to Roy's footsteps each rickety wooden step down.

 

 

_"Engine 51, HT 51. We got a man trapped on third. I need the K-12."_

_"HT 51. Marco's on the way, John."_

_"10-4."_

Roy kept one ear on his handie talkie as he laid his patient on the yellow tarp Squad 108 had already laid out by their squad. Before he could do anything more than take off his air mask, his patient began to flail his arms, coughing, choking.

"Easy! Take it easy! You're okay! I'm going to give you some oxygen, all right?" Roy snagged the O2 tank with one hand. He could barely make out the beard and panicked hazel eyes from all the soot. The man's mouth kept opening and closing, gaping like a caught trout. 

Roy was jerked down when the man grabbed him by the collar, mouth still moving without a sound.

"Relax." Roy pulled the fingers away. "You're out. You're safe now. Try to relax."

It was still early but Roy could feel the sun beating down his back. He was cooking inside his turnout coat but all thoughts about his discomfort vanished as soon as he saw what was underneath the shirt he cut away. He reached for the Biophone, slotting in the antenna at the same time as he pulled the handset to his ear.

Roy absently wiped the sweat off his chin with a thick sleeve. He spared the building behind him a look, before he checked his handie talkie again. It was buzzing with updates but nothing from 51. Roy told himself that was good; no news was good news. he gathered his focus for the task at hand.

"Rampart, this is Squad 51. How do you read?"

 

 

_"HT 51, Engine 51. Be advised third floor is now fully involved. Get out of there."_

_"10-4."_

In truth, John wasn't sure what happened. He was watching Marco and the K-12 sparking and whining as it devoured enough floor to get 108's Carter's legs out. He heard Chet one floor below with someone from Ladder 17, hosing Carter's trapped legs where they dangled in the engulfed second floor. 

Marco looked intent, focused, his usual smirk missing as he guided the circular saw around for the final cut. "Almost there." 

John tensed. He clasped Carter's right forearm. Carter's partner grabbed the back of his pants. Knees bent, they braced and waited.

"Okay!"

"Heave!" John gritted his teeth, lifted and that's when he heard the unmistakable snap of wood and paint hissing, cracking...

"Watch it!"

"John!"

John felt a hard thump land square across his back. He smelled wood. He staggered forward but held onto Carter's arm.

Another thump knocked him down to one knee.

"Drop, Johnny! _Drop_!" Chet was screaming somewhere below him.

Turnout coats were thick, heavy, but John felt the heat rippling on him. He threw himself down to the ground. He felt hands pounding on him, so hard it left him breathless. He felt the force of a hose's full intensity slamming across his back. And that's when John realized.

He was on fire.

As quickly as he realized it, as fast as it took him to frantically rock left and right before the heat he felt could creep up his exposed neck, the fire was out. He was drenched, shaking uncontrollably, but it was out.

"You all right?" Marco's mask banged into his as he grabbed John by the shoulders. "John, you okay?"

"Is he all right?" Carter had somehow made it out of the hole. He gripped John's right arm hard enough to hurt.

"Yeah. Yea," John managed. "I'm all right." He blinked a few times before he realized the reason he couldn't see was because his mask was all fogged up. 

"Let's get out of here." For some reason, John couldn't remember what Carter's partner's name was. He nodded anyway. He willed his knees to stop shaking (he was _freezing_ ). With Marco's hand on one arm, Chet's hand grabbed him by the other when they reached the second floor, John found himself being half hauled out of the building. He couldn't bring himself to protest though when he heard part of the third floor roaring to a crash above them, bellowing all the way down to the basement.

 

 

_"...transport immediately."_

_"10-4, Rampart."_

Roy's head snapped up when the building groaned and finally gave up sections of its upper floors to the fire. The collapse threw up a cloud of ash and smoke that swept over the streets like smog. He heard everyone shouting: Cap telling everyone to get back, Vince and his men ordering bystanders to move back and Chet hollering his name at the top of his lungs.

" _Roy_!" 

Even though from a distance, Roy could tell John was walking under his own power, Carter and Benning bringing up the rear, he felt a knot in his stomach. It could be because he caught John misstep before Marco steadied him. It could be because bracketed between Chet and Marco, John was being steered towards him.

It could be because he could smell it: the acrid stench of burnt rubber.

"DeSoto!" one of police officers shouted from across the street. "Ambulances here!"

Roy waved in response towards the direction of bystanders still staring and pointing at the tableau. He squashed down his irritation as he shouted, louder, "Yeah! Over here!" But he kept his eyes on John as he stumbled under Chet and Marco's guidance to the borders of the yellow tarp.

"Wall," Chet said tersely as he guided John to sit down by Roy's patient.

"Did it burn through?" Roy demanded, talking over John's breathless "I'm okay. I'm okay" and Carter offering to get Roy's patient onto the gurney as the first ambulance rolled up in front of the squad. "How long before it was put out?"

"One, maybe two minutes," Marco reported. "Hey, we gotta get back. Take it easy, Johnny." Readjusting his helmet, Marco headed back towards what was left of the still burning building.

"Later, Gage," rasped Chet. After a moment of hesitation, he jogged after Marco.

"I'm fine. I'm all right. It didn't burn through." Despite his assurances, John dropped his head wearily against Roy's hip when Roy reached him. 

"That's good," Roy said hoarsely. He swallowed as charred flakes of coat fluttered off John's back when he brushed a glove over the bowed posture. The reflective strips were peeling at the ends, the stencils 'LA County' and 'Gage' were lost under the ugly black scorched marks. His partner was right: it didn't burn through even the top layer, but it was close. John's neck had a faint pink strip starting where his stiff collar ended.

"He's in," Carter reported. "Benning is riding with your patient and one of ours because they're both a rush. Cap's got someone bringing our squad back to the barn. Want me to bring your squad in?"

John's head jerked up at the wail of the ambulance peeling away from them. "What? No. I can..."

"Can ride in the other ambulance with me," Roy cut in firmly. "You okay?" He scanned Carter quickly.

Carter grinned, his teeth startling white on a face smeared with soot, blackening even his bushy red mustache. 

"Not a scratch."

"Some guys have all the luck," John mumbled. He groaned as Roy hauled him to his feet.

"You lead a charmed life as well," Roy told him as he helped him up the runner into the second ambulance. He ducked in after John in time to see him shiver. "Cold?"

John mumbled under his breath before shaking his head.

Right. Roy shrugged out of his coat. "Here, take mine." He didn't want to see that blackened coat on John for too long anyway. 

"Thanks." John's teeth were chattering but Roy was relieved to note his fingertips were fairly pink when he reached for the coat. 

"Brr." It took John two tries before he could slip his arms through the sleeves. "Think Chet forgot where the real fire was and used all the water on me."

_I would_ , Roy thought fiercely. Out loud, he scoffed. "I doubt the department will send you a bill."

"Not with what they pay me." John huddled into Roy's coat. He blinked owlishly up at him. 

"Why you still got your helmet on, Roy?"

Oops. Roy snorted. "Things were happening pretty quickly." He pulled his helmet off. Whew. Too bad Chet couldn't hose _him_ down.

"You're t-telling me. One minute, I was helping C-carter. The next, I was almost a Roman candle." John shrank deeper into Roy's coat. 

Roy wished he had another coat. He reached over and lifted off John's helmet. Just to be sure, he ran a hand through the dark locks plastered to John's head. He ignored the dirty look his partner gave him as he felt the back of his skull then checked his pupils.

"No sign of head trauma," Roy announced. 

"Aw, I could have told you that," grumbled John. 

"You would have told me that even if you _did_ have a head injury," Roy pointed out as he rolled up John's destroyed coat and stuffed it under the stretcher with a look of distaste. "At least you didn't lose your helmet this time, partner," Roy said in a false, light voice.

"Hooray." John didn't look too thrilled though.

A rap on the doors drew both their attention.

"You boys, okay?" Cap's shrewd gaze whipped towards John. "John?"

John wearily raised a hand. 

Apparently, that was enough for Cap. He grunted. "All right. Carter's behind you with the squad. Fire's contained."

Roy glanced to the front where he could see the driver and his partner fidgeting behind the partition. "What's the hold up?"

"A couple of looky loos blocking the road." Cap screwed up his face in disgust.

John blinked, his red-rimmed eyes peeked out from where he was burrowed deep inside Roy's coat. "Our patient got out okay though, right?" He gave Roy a puzzled frown. "Should have gone with them."

There was a twinge in Roy's chest. John was right; he should have gone with his patient. It was a TKO, after all. He wordlessly passed over the spare blanket from the empty stretcher and watched John try to swathe himself in furls of coat and scratchy tan wool. When John tried to suppress another shiver, the twinge in his chest subsided.

Cap checked the fire over his shoulder. "Ambulance went out fine. Heard ETA was three minutes."

John nodded, his shoulders slumping forward. He blinked slowly. Roy was tempted to tell John to lie down on the stretcher but knew his partner would never go for it.

"Once Vince clears those twits gawking over there, he'll meet you at Rampart, Roy." Cap tapped knuckles on the doors. "Got no more passengers for you boys. Everyone else checked out fine."

"Thanks, Cap," Roy said. He rapped the partition behind the driver as soon as the doors closed. "Let's go."

With a wail of sirens, the ambulance inched through the crowds, trying to get through, to be on its way to Rampart. 

"Roy?" John still sat on the floor of the ambulance, the collar drawn up to his ears, blanket wrapped around him like a poncho. "Why is Vince meeting us there?"

Roy took a deep breath. That's right; John didn't know.

"Because," Roy told him, "my patient? The guy we found on Four?"

"Yeah?"

"He was shot."


	2. Chapter 2

_"Squad 51. Man down. 23 Venture Drive. Two three Venture. Cross streets Wilson and Mark. Time out 1113."_

_"Squad 51."_

Roy's eyes slid over to his temporary partner, Sid Vance. Vance, a paramedic over at 45, slouched forward, his narrow shoulders hunched as he scribbled down the address of the run into his notepad balanced on a bony knee. Sid hesitated, hazel eyes darting from spot to spot, torn off slip in hand.

"Up there." Roy kept his eyes on the road but nodded towards the sun visor above them. "Joh—We usually keep them up there."

"Thanks." Sid dutifully stuffed the slip in with the others. 

There had already been three more runs since the early morning fire. Roy checked in on John whenever he was back in Rampart. He had just enough time to poke his head in, greet the dark tousled head huddled under a cooling blanket and the sleepy brown eyes before the tones rang out in his handie talkie again.

"He doing all right?"

Roy knew who Sid was referring to. He allowed himself a relieved sigh. "Yeah. the Docs just wanted to keep him on fluids for a little while longer. I'll be picking him up tonight once my shift is over."

"He wasn't too badly burned, was he?" Sid asked because it was the one question always on a fireman's mind.

"He's had worse sunburns," Roy joked, but his insides churned. He could still smell the burnt rubber. "Gear did its job."

"Amen to that." Sid rapped lightly on the helmet on his head.

"Yea." Roy swallowed the lump in his throat and made the right turn into Wilson. He concentrated on the road and not on that fact Johnny's turnout coat was rolled up and stuffed in a garbage bag, stored in the back, still reeking of smoke.

 

 

By the time Roy's shift was over, the sweltering heat had dropped into a chilly night. Hence why he frowned when he drove up to Rampart and found John hunched in his borrowed turnout coat, sitting outside on a guardrail that lined the parking lot.

"What are you doing out here?" chided Roy as he gripped John by the elbow. His partner looked steady enough on his feet, but the weight of John's arm reassured _him_.

"I didn't want them to get any bright ideas about keeping me in there longer. Morton was making noises about draining my blood. I know he was." John stared at Roy's car. "You didn't bring my jeep?"

"No, Johnny. It's been a long shift. I didn't feel like driving two cars today," Roy teased. He let go of John's elbow to observe him as he shuffled to the car. John was walking straight, albeit slowly. 

Roy's brow furrowed.

"You sure you don't want to stay here over—"

"No!"

"All right, just asking!" Roy chuckled as John practically fell into the car to buckle his seat belt lest Roy change his mind. 

Roy went around and climbed into the driver's seat. "You're gonna break Dix's heart, you know. She missed you on her day off."

"With all the police and stuff going on in there, I doubt she's gonna miss me when she gets in tonight."

Roy paused, his hand still holding onto to his own seatbelt buckle. "Police?" Then he remembered. "The gunshot victim. Heard anything more about him?"

John's voice lowered despite the fact there was no one else around. "Second degree burns over forty percent of his body. That bullet missed his heart by that much." He pinched the air half an inch with his fingers. "He's hanging in there, though. I heard the guy's even got a _guard_ by his door. No one knows who he is yet but a Detective Barton took his fingerprints."

Roy gave him an arched eyebrow. "You were asleep each time I saw you. Where did you get the time to find all this out?"

"I have my sources." At Roy's higher eyebrow, John huffed. "Oh, all right. It was Morton."

Chuckling, Roy finished buckling in. "Sure you don't want to stay overnight, Columbo? Maybe you can find out something more?"

"Roy, I just want to go home and sleep and go back to work Thursd—Aw man." John's head drooped.

Roy's amusement evaporated. He twisted towards the passenger's side. "Johnny? What is it? You feeling all right?" He slipped a hand back to John's elbow.

"I'm fine. I'm— _Roy_ , cut it out, I'm fine! I just thought of something!"

There were times Roy could throttle Johnny, maybe shake loose something that would click back into position; maybe something that would tell John to stop giving his partner a cardiac event. But looking at John managing to appear like his boy caught wearing his turnout coat, Roy gave him a pass.

"All right," Roy said calmly, "What did you just think of and do I need to call Dispatch?"

The scowl John shot him was more comical than intimidating. "You're not the comedian you think you are, Roy."

"You sure?" mused Roy as he turned the ignition. The engine rolled into a purr. "A guy has to have a pretty good sense of humor to put up with you, partner."

"Har har." John was smiling though. He started to sink into his seat. He flinched, sighed and sat up.

"Back bothering you?" Doctor Bracket had assured Roy the last time he was there that the burns weren't serious enough to give John any trouble. But by the way John was fidgeting, Roy was tempted to turn his car around.

"Itchy. Sore," John grumbled. "I've had worse sunburns."

Roy snorted.

"What?"

"That's exactly what I told Sid Vance."

"Oh ho, you got Sid Vance from 45?" 

Out of the corner of his eye, Roy spied John smirking, back now forgotten. He pretended to sigh heavily. "Yeah."

"Sid still does that thing with a pen?" John made the notion like he was gnawing on a carrot.

This time, the sigh was for real. "Yeah. _All_ shift." At John's snicker, Roy added, "On your pen."

" _What_?" John glowered at Roy's snicker. "Not funny, Roy."

Roy shook his head, his mouth still stretched in a grin. "So what was your thought?"

"Huh?"

"You said you just thought of something." Roy turned onto the correct overpass before he looked over. "Don't tell me you forgot."

"What—Oh, no. Shoot, I didn't forget." John's mouth twisted unhappily. "Just remembered I gotta get my gear replaced."

Roy's smile faded. "Your coat."

"Yup. Unless you think it's still goo—"

"No." Roy's mouth soured. "It's pretty much gone, Johnny." Or at least it will be once he tosses out the charred reminder. He frowned, changed lanes when a station wagon in front of him appeared to be undecided whether it wanted the upcoming exit or not. "Hey, you just replaced your gloves, didn't you?"

"Some shirts too. Last month was a messy month."

Roy didn't know if being trapped in three burning buildings and a mudslide counted as messy, but he let it go. "Look, why don't you put the order in for it tomorrow? It'll take a day to fit and fill the order anyway. I'll spot you until payday."

"You sure?"

Roy shrugged. "Can't go out to a call without your gear. You should pick up a spare too, you know."

"That _was_ my spare," mourned John. He stared out the windshield gloomily.

Roy winced.

 

 

_"LA, Engine 51, this building is fully involved. Respond a second alarm."_

_"HT 51, Engine 51. Clear out the structure. Repeat. Clear out!"_

_He could feel the heat licking at his heels. He shouldn't be feeling it. His gear was thick enough to ward off the flames for a few precious minutes._

_When he looked down at himself, he discovered he was just in his dark blue uniform, his head bare, his hands exposed and pink. When he looked up, the ceiling was a rolling sea of fire._

_And then he heard the sizzle and crackle before it all came tumbling down..._

With a yelp muffled by his pillow, John jolted awake. Breathing heavily, he laid there, blinking as he tried to figure out why he was facedown on the bed. When he pushed up on his elbows, his back twinged, stretched more than usual. There was an odd medicinal smell that irritated his nose.

Oh. 

John groaned. He continued to sit up, using his elbows, awkwardly making his way to the edge of the bed. He rubbed his eyes clear of sleep. Shoot, it would be just his luck if he had trouble sleeping again. The last thing he needed was to find another Stokes hanging over his bed like a crib. That darn mobile of butterflies disappeared after the guys shared their great idea. John suspected Chet was probably saving it for the perfect opportunity.

Squinting blearily in the dark, John wondered what woke him. His back wasn't hurting enough to disrupt his sleep. John wasn't lying when he told Roy he'd had worse sunburns. 

Scratching the back of his head, John squinted around his dark bedroom. He yawned, shook his head and took a deep breath as he carefully leaned back into his bed. 

John froze.

Faint, at first he thought he imagined it. Sitting up again, John took another deep breath.

There was a vague smell that didn't belong in the air.

John staggered up, shoved his bare feet into the hiking boots he never got around to putting away and grabbed Roy's turnout coat he'd hung on his bedroom door's hook. 

By the time John shrugged into the coat, grabbed his fire extinguisher and reached his front door, the smell was stronger. Not strong enough to wake a building full of sleeping residents, but strong enough for a fireman to recognize it.

"Fire! Fire! Everyone out!" John shouted, banging on every door as he went. The smell was still faint. Not this floor then.

John suddenly found himself surrounded.

"What's going on?"

"Is it a fire?"

"Oh my God, is the building on fire?"

"We have to get out of here!"

Faces John recognized and some he didn't clamored around him.

"I called 911!" Mrs. Evans from down the hall volunteered in a shaky voice.

John picked out the tallest person of the group. He gave him a nudge towards the end of the hallway. "Fire exit is down there. Everybody follow him. Don't use the elevator! Wait across the street!"

John didn't wait anymore. He heard someone cry out in surprise from below. 

By the time John got into the stairwell, it was filling up with people who were starting to panic as the smell thickened in the air. Someone moaned in fright. 

"Where's the smoke coming from?"

"Get out of my way!"

"Gina! Stay with me!"

"Let me through! Let me through!"

"Don't push!" John hollered as he helped Mrs. Kind from 4A back up to her feet. She gave him a tearful smile before her husband hurried her away. John grabbed the railing and shouted down the stairwell. "You're all doing fine! Don't stop."

Someone grabbed John by the shoulder, nearly jerking him off the steps.

"Sir!" John caught a glimpse of a stark white face, a close-shaven head. John stumbled, crashing into him as the man's hand curled around his arm and began dragging him in the other direction.

"Calm down!" People rushed by, voices babbling even as John tried to shake off the frightened grip on his arm to herd the evacuation to a more manageable surge. "Sir, you need to let go. You're going the wrong way. Just follow that guy out. You'll be fine!" 

John wrenched away from the grip when another person elbowed past them in terror.

"Keep moving. Stay calm," John called out, wiggling away before whoever it was could panic again and grab hold of him.

"Head outside. Fire department's on their way." John steadied some as they staggered by, shrugged off hands trying to grab on for dear life. 

"Keep moving," John coaxed. "You're all doing fine." He knew where the fire must be when the trickle of smell massed into a thick stench of burning wood by the time he reached the second floor landing. John thought he could hear sirens in the distance. But he paused when he realized no one was coming out of the second floor.

The second floor door was cool to his touch. John took a deep breath and pushed his way in


	3. Chapter 3

_"...DeSoto residence."_

_"Ma'am, I'm sorry to be calling so late. I was wondering if I could speak to Fireman Roy DeSoto, please?"_

_"...Uh...h-hold on, I'll get him."_

_"This is Fireman Roy DeSoto. Who is this?"_

_"Sir, this is Captain Ted Anders from Station 127...DeSoto, I think you should come down to Rampart General."_

It was three in the morning. It was probably why Roy suddenly needed to rest his forehead briefly on top of his steering wheel when he pulled the key out of the ignition. He was tired, that was all. It wasn't because of a call from a different Cap, sounding sober and—

_He's all right. He's okay._

Roy inhaled sharply. The sound was startling despite the background sirens of Rampart General. As he levered out of the car, the cool air revived him. He found his steps quickening as he drew closer to the Emergency's Visitors entrance. By the time the doors opened on cue, Roy was running through them.

When Roy came to a stop in the main corridor, he exhaled, forcing out the hard knot that sat in his chest since Captain Anders had called. He vaguely remembered kissing Joanne goodbye, remembered wishing his kids weren't with his mother-in-law and drove to Rampart in a daze. Did he lock the door? No, but Joanne probably did. Was he speeding? Hopefully not. 

"He's in the staff lounge, Roy."

Blinking, Roy turned to his left. Dix smiled gently at him, her usual calm expression held a tinge of amusement. He felt himself relaxing.

"Johnny's okay then?" Roy propped himself against the wall. Boy, he needed some sleep.

"Well, okay enough he's hiding from Doctor Morton." Dix smirked. Nothing seemed to surprise her. "He's fine. A little cold I think. We gave him some O2. Squad 127 brought him in with the others—"

"Others?" Roy grimaced. "Right, Captain Anders said there was a fire. How bad?"

"Eight were admitted. Two were already discharged. No fatalities." Dix kept one eye on the hallways for any walk-ins. "It could have been a lot worse."

Roy nodded. He'd seen how much worse it could get. He considered the doorway all the way at the end of the hall. "So he can go home now?" 

Dix scoffed. "Would it matter if we said no?"

Roy chuckled wearily. He scrubbed his face with a hand. It took him a second to remember why he was out of uniform. "I better go get him, Dix. Thanks." He gave her a wave as he steered for the lounge.

"Tell Johnny if he shows up again, Morton said he was going to charge him extra."

 

 

The lights in the lounge were dimmed but, with the lighting from the corridor, Roy spotted John lying face down, stretched out on the only couch in the space. A coffee mug and what looked like a tiny pleated paper cup from the pill dispensary sat on the floor, within reach of his dangling left hand. 

From the doorway, Roy could detect the fresh stench of smoke, wet wood and the chemical bite of a fire extinguisher. A green canister of O2 was propped by his head, breathing mask hanging off his loosely curled fingers. And John had Roy's coat on again, collar pulled up. Hiking boots were set on the floor, in a ready position as if they were poised in the fire station. 

Roy crouched by John's head. Closer, he could see a new patch of gauze on the back of John's right hand. He must have tried to clean the soot off his face but from this angle, Roy could see he missed a spot along his hairline. The reddened strip of skin on the back of his neck gleamed with newly applied ointment.

Mindful of John's back, Roy patted him on the shoulder. "Hey."

John snuffled, squirmed on the couch and continued to snore.

"Johnny," Roy said louder by his ear.

"Stupid butterflies," John mumbled. 

Butterflies? Roy frowned. He rested a palm on the back of John's head. Carefully, he swatted the dark head.

John jerked. 

"Chet, will you lay off with the butterfl—Roy?"

"Butterflies?" Roy repeated archly.

John blinked at Roy. "Hey."

"Hey, yourself. You know I was only kidding about Dix missing out." 

"Very funny," yawned John as he sat up. "I told Captain Anders I could call a cab and go home but darn Morton said it was either you or Rampart."

"Hate to tell you this, partner, but from what Captain Anders said, it's going to be another day or two before they'll let anyone back in."

"Oh no." John knuckled an eye as he groaned. "How bad is it?"

"Well, from what he said, the fire was contained to the second floor so water damage was localized to only the first and second floors. You slowed it down enough so it didn't go to the third but there was still a lot of smoke damage to the upper floors, including yours." Roy paused. When Anders told him, it felt like he was listening from a deep tunnel. It was like he wasn't hearing it, not really.

"Roy?" John studied him before he nudged him with a shoulder. "I'm okay."

The smile he offered John felt odd on his face. "Sure you are. Now get up, Joanne's waiting for us. You got a nice room reserved at Hotel DeSoto's."

John yawned again. He grimaced as he tiredly shoved his bare feet into his boots. He absently tugged at his pajamas.

"Too bad Debbie from Obstetrics isn't here to be impressed by your great fashion sense." Roy cast his eyes about. He snagged the blanket John had rolled up to use as a makeshift pillow. 

John made a face when he peered down at himself. "I didn't really have a chance to change, Roy."

"Yet you managed to save my coat. Appreciate that." Roy flipped the blanket over John's shoulders. He bit back a smirk at the look it made with John's dark hair in wild tuffs, turnout coat big and loose over striped pajamas, wrapped in the gray blanket like one of Marco's enchiladas. Hopefully, Joanne would resist ruffling his hair. 

"Wish I saved some socks too," grumbled John as he clopped loudly besides Roy in untied hiking boots. He stilled in the middle of the hallway.

"Hey, Roy?"

Brow furrowed, Roy checked over his shoulder. John stood a few feet back with a baffled expression. "What?"

John looked to his left then to his right. 

"Didn't we just do this?"

Roy rolled his eyes. He backtracked, grabbed the blanket draped over John and used it to pull his partner along.

"Come on, before I let Morton know where you are." 

"You're all heart, Roy. All heart."

 

 

John wondered if Roy was speeding because he could have sworn he only just climbed into Roy's car. John remembered staring sleepily at the stray cars left on the parking lot, at the fellow in one car staring back because they were probably a sight: John's boots stomping hollowly behind Roy, Roy fussing with getting another blanket from the trunk. He remembered trying to buckle his seatbelt but it was busted, he couldn't get the halves to lock. Roy leaned over to his side, did whatever he did and snapped it in place before he did his own.

No, John swore that had only happened but when he opened his eyes again (when had they closed?), Joanne was peering through the window at him with the kind of expression women get when they come across a box of puppies.

"Aw, honey, can we keep him?" teased Joanne. She stepped back to let John climb (fall) out of Roy's car.

"He'll eat us out of house and home," Roy quipped. "Johnny, will you wait for me to—don't get out of the car yet. Hold up."

Too late, John stood swaying, blinking at Roy's house and trying to remember why it was so dark right now. He shuffled (Roy was dragging him) into the house. The lights were too bright and when John tried to pull his hiking boots off, they thumped heavily against one of the end tables. 

John flinched.

"Sorry," John mumbled. He eyed the hallway he knew led to the bedrooms.

"They're at my mother's," explained Joanne. She made a face at John's feet. 

Automatically, John tucked his bare feet in, under the couch. Not that they smelled or anything, but he could only imagine what they look like now after hours in his boots with no socks.

Speaking of socks, a rolled up wad of thick white sport socks bounced off his arm. John gratefully slipped them on, wiggled his toes in them. He sighed.

"Thanks." Or at least he tried to say that around his mouth gaping wide to a yawn.

"I'll get you a spare toothbrush too," Joanne decided, wrinkling her nose. 

John snapped his mouth shut. Shoot. He glowered at Roy as he was hauled up to his feet.

"What?" Roy tugged John's right arm over his shoulders. John tried to help, but his stupid feet couldn't make up their mind where they wanted to go.

"No, Johnny, this way." 

"I know. I know."

For some reason, Roy sounded like he was laughing. "You sure? Because that's the bathroom." His voice got quieter. "Just let me. I got you."

John nodded, throat working as he trusted Roy not to walk him to a wall. No, Roy would never do that. And it was strange before to turn around back at the fire, to realize his partner wasn't with him and that he was alone on that second floor. 

"Here we are."

The bed underneath him gave a little bounce when he landed. John turned around and practically hugged the pillow over his face.

"Wait. Let me get that coat off."

"In a minute," John mumbled into the pillow. It smelled like soap. Better than smoke. He pressed his cheek harder into it. "Just..." He yawned again, hard enough his eyes burned, "one minute, 'oy..."

There was a snort above him. A hand rested on the back of his head and gave it a little scratch. 

"Alright, in a minute." The long exhale roused John a bit.

"I'm okay, 'oy." John felt something warm and heavy over his legs. "'ould have been worse..."

Roy's reply drew out long and low. "Yeah."

"Could..." John's throat felt sticky, gummy, stuck together. "Lot of people 'oulda died...like the first..."

"What are you talking about?" A hand slipped around his forehead. Roy grunted and the hand slipped away. "Good. No fever. Now what were you talking about? The first?"

John's head felt fuzzy, like he was standing in a room full of smoke, his outstretched hands unable to touch any walls. His hands curled and curled tighter. The skin across his right knuckles stretched uncomfortably.

"What is it?"

What was it Morton told him? Before he took enough blood from John to qualify being called Dracula from now on? Something about...why there was no longer any police hanging around. John furrowed his brow. Then his eyes flew open. Oh yeah. That's right.

"That first guy." John screwed up his face, trying to get his mouth to work properly. "Gun...gun guy..."

"Gunshot victim." Luckily, Roy always knew what John needed to say. "What about him?"

What about him? Shoot. John snorted against the pillow. Oh, wait.

"Morton told me..." John yawned. "He's dead."

If Roy had anything to say about that, John couldn't tell as he finally sank into what the warm bed and pillow promised him.


	4. Chapter 4

_"...Towers deemed structurally sound. Sources have confirmed the fire appeared to have originated in a maintenance closet on the second floor. Residents here said were it not for the quick thinking of Fireman DeSoto, they would not have escaped in time. This is Warren Perkins, reporting for KNBC news..."_

Nothing surprised him anymore.

Or so Roy thought. 

He'd been a fireman long enough to not be taken back by anything he came across. He's rescued a motorcyclist from a patch of cactus. He climbed down a hillside, only to find the patient stinking drunk and not a scratch on him. He rescued nine clowns jammed in a buggy in a failed stunt (Joanne still laughs about that one). Even Johnny stopped surprising him; Roy pretty much expected his partner would perplex and exasperate him from time to time hence he filed it away as one of those things that went hand in hand with being partners with John Gage.

So when Roy drove him and John to work, he expected the few distracted greetings, some quip from Chet and John steering for his Land Rover with all the fuss of a father separated from his toddler.

What he didn't expect, however, was the round of applause that attacked him the minute he stepped into the kitchen.

"There he is, man of the hour!" Chet whistled as he stood up from his chair, clapping. Marco and Mike followed, on their feet, striking palms together loudly.

"Uh..." Roy gave John a sideways glance. His partner had his hands up as well; about to clap too but Roy suspected, by the perplexed grin he wore, John had no clue why.

"What's all this?" Roy mused. He pushed John's hands down. "We've been off a day. You guys miss us already?"

"Just welcoming home our celebrated hero." Chet threw an arm around Roy's shoulders. "We're celebrating your selfless acts of heroism above and beyond the call of duty."

John snorted. "Aw come on, picking me up from Rampart isn't..." He blinked when Marco prodded him over to the cork board where some sort of clipping was tacked up. 

"What the..." John squinted at the article. He pointed to it, gave Roy a baffled look and blinked at it again.

"What's it say?" Roy gave Chet's huge grin a wary look.

"Huh, it's about the fire over at my place." John muttered, reading it to himself, but Roy had a bad, bad feeling when John's voice rose as he read.

"...with many thanks to the quick thinking actions of Fireman John _DeSoto_?" John yelped in the end. He straightened as Chet howled. Marco snickered as he patted John consolingly on the shoulder. "Did you...Wha...did you know about this?" John stared at Roy, opened mouth, finger still pointing at the clipping.

Roy held up his hands. "Me? Nah." He turned to Chet.

"We only saw that when we came in. B Shift saw it in the paper yesterday." Chet snorted. "I would call and complain, Roy. That's not a flattering photo of you."

Puzzled, Roy shouldered past a sputtering John to see for himself. The article wasn't particularly large and was next to some local interest piece about a park that was getting new seesaws. But under the clipping, with the caption 'Fireman John DeSoto' was a black and white photo of John, in Roy's coat, glancing over his shoulder at someone as he was supported into an ambulance, his face smudged with soot.

Chet snorted as he tried to gulp back a laugh. He wrapped an arm around his middle, leaning on the kitchen table as he tried to catch his breath.

"Why the heck were you wearing Roy's gear?" chortled Chet.

"That's what I would like to know."

At Cap's stern voice, the laughter dissipated. Roy gave John an uneasy glance as Cap entered the kitchen, his arms folded in front of him.

"John. Roy," Cap rumbled. "You two want to tell me anything?"

"Uh, Johnny's coat was ruined by Tuesday's fire, Cap." Roy nodded towards the article on the wall. "So I lent him mine."

"I forgot to give it back." John fidgeted where he stood. "But it's in the squad right now."

Cap hemmed. "And your gear?" At John's swallow, he sighed. "John, you know the rules. I can't let you go out on runs without your gear."

Suddenly, Roy could see no one was finding it funny anymore. 

Chet cleared his throat. "Aw, Cap. He could use his sp—

"Um..." John rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes on his boots. "That was the spare."

Marco muttered something under his breath.

Cap ignored him. He sighed. "And when's your replacements getting here?"

Roy could see when John remembered he'd never called and he cut in before the panic fully came to the surface. "Yesterday, Cap. I called it in yesterday." John had been too out of it yesterday. He'd barely stirred when Roy coaxed him awake to reapply the ointment and take his pills. Joanne wanted to take a photo of John falling asleep at the dinner table, two head bobs away from drowning in his potato chowder.

"Then he can report back to his shift when it gets here." Cap sighed at John's expression. 

"But...I already missed most of the last shift," John protested weakly, his shoulders drooping. He straightened, his eyes hopeful. "Can't I just go out on non-fire..." At Cap's head shake, his face fell.

Cap didn't look too happy himself. "I'm sorry, John, but those are the rules. You know that. There's nothing I can do."

"Hey, Cap," Chet spoke up. "He's got Roy's coat and Roy has another."

"In my locker," Roy confirmed. He smiled sheepishly when Cap's eyebrow rose at him.

"Couldn't Johnny keep wearing Roy's coat? At least until his stuff gets here?" Chet suggested. His eyes darted over to John, his mustache twitching.

"It'll be here tomorrow," Mike added. He shifted closer to John. "We're off tomorrow."

"I'll drive over and pick it up soon as it's ready," John jumped in. "It's just one shift."

"What do you say, Cap?" Marco added.

Cap held up a hand before Chet or Roy could add their two cents. "Let me talk to the Chief." He wiggled a finger at John. "You. In my office. Now."

John visibly gulped but obediently followed. He didn't look at anyone as he trailed Cap to the office.

With a whoosh, Chet dropped backwards into a chair. "Aw man."

Marco grunted. He rubbed a finger under his nose. "What if the Chief says no?"

A cold lump sat heavy in Roy's gut. "You think he will?"

"And lose one of their best paramedic for a shift?" Chet blanched. "I didn't say that."

Roy smiled wearily. He glanced over to the door. His throat worked. "I'm going to get coffee. Anyone want some?" At the dishearted mumbles, Roy shrugged. "Okay."

The pot was half full, but Roy poured it down the drain anyway. He concentrated on measuring out the grounds then he filled the pot with water, fiddling until he got the flame just right. It was better than staring at the door like Chet and Marco were. Mike was suddenly busy cleaning the same corner of the chalkboard over and over.

As Roy stared at the tiny bubbles stuck at the bottom of the pot, Marco cleared his throat.

"Seems to be a while, huh?"

"Maybe the line's busy," Mike said before he returned to furiously scrubbing the corner.

"The Chief probably put them on hold," Chet muttered. "You know how busy those higher ups are." He walked from the couch to the fridge, opening it to look inside, closing it before drifting back to the couch. Then, he did it all over again.

"What are you doing?" Marco asked, exasperated.

"Nothing. Trying to figure out what we got to make for lunch today," muttered Chet.

"Isn't it my turn?" Marco pointed out.

"Yeah, but I wanna see what's for chow later, that's all."

"Why don't you let me figure that out, Chet."

"Don't be touchy, Marco. I was only—"

"Hey. Hey." Roy called out, sharper than he meant to. The room fell silent. He exhaled. "Look, I guess we're all just—"

A distant whoop interrupted.

Roy grinned. "Guess the Chief didn't put them on hold after all."

The door flew open, John came in, slipping a little on the linoleum. "The Chief said it was okay this once!" he blurted out breathlessly.

"We heard," Chet drawled. "Geez, Gage. Calm down, will ya? Wait, or should that be _DeSoto_?"

The good humor turned quickly to a scowl. "Chet, why don't you—"

John never finished as the tones blared loud and long.

_"Station 51. Man trapped..."_

Roy turned off the stove and dashed for the lockers to grab his spare coat. When he passed John by the wall map with Mike, he gave John a light slap on the shoulder. When John scrambled into the squad, he punched Roy back in the arm. 

Roy grinned, turned on the ignition and drove out of the barn, the engine doggedly following in a wail of sirens.

 

 

_"Engine 6. Squad 51. Man trapped. Pico Markets on 65 Willet Drive. Six five Willet Drive. Time out 931."_

_"Engine 6."_

_"Squad 51."_

"It's not funny."

"Of course not," Roy agreed, sounding as reasonable as he always did, but John knew better. 

John glowered at Roy as he drove down the freeway leading to the station. He slumped back into the seat. "I don't even know how they found out," John complained. His face still felt flushed as if he'd been in out in the sun too long.

"Joey at 6 wouldn't let up. 'Hiya DeSoto! See ya later, DeSoto!' By the time we got that guy out, he had everyone doing it!"

"You're right," Roy said seriously, "It's not funny at all." He wasn't fooling John though; the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Darn newspaper," grumbled John. "How did they get my name wrong? _DeSoto_?"

"What's wrong with a name like DeSoto?" Roy demanded all of a sudden. He frowned, but didn't look at John. His jaw set as he turned the squad, ready to back into the station once the door rolled completely up. 

"I like the name DeSoto." Roy glowered at John out of the corner of his eye. "Joanne, too." He gestured with a hand towards himself. "Our kids are all right with the name DeSoto. I-I don't hear any complaints from them."

Oh boy. "Well, nothing...n-nothing's wrong with the name," John fumbled. "It's a fine name. _Fine_ name. I mean...your parents thought it was all right. Look, I'm not saying..." John trailed off. Roy seemed to be concentrating really hard on his driving. "Aw, come on, Roy. You know I didn't mean...I just...it's just that the guys..." He narrowed his eyes as the squad rolled to a stop. He huffed and gave Roy a shove.

"Okay, you got me!" John snorted. 

Roy released the chuckle he'd been holding in as he climbed out of the squad. "Look, the reporter probably got your name from your neighbors, saw the coat and put two and two together."

"You figure at least my _neighbors_ would know my name," mourned John. "Guess they don't know me as well as you do, pally."

Roy scoffed. He rolled his eyes as he shut the door. "Does anybody, Junior?"

" _Junior_?"

John jumped at Chet's all too gleeful voice behind him. He groaned. Perfect.

Chet threw an arm over John's shoulders. "Welcome back... _Junior_." He guffawed. "Wait til the guys get a load of this."

"Chet!" John glared at Chet's retreating back. "Roy. You...Shoot. Chet, cut it out! Chet!" He scowled at Roy, before he went after Chet.

Roy's baffled, "What?" was drowned out when Mike and Marco's laughter shot out of the kitchen. Too late. John skidded the last foot into the room. He nearly crashed into the swinging door in his haste. He slapped a palm over it before it could smack Roy in the face.

"Che—"

"Hi, Junior," Chet, Marco and Mike chorused before they snickered.

John growled, "Chet" under his breath. It didn't help that Roy was chuckling, patting him on the back as he made his way around John to get to the coffee. 

"Wait til the guys at 18 hear about this." Chet rubbed his hands together. It made him look like that Doctor Frankenstein man in the late, late show they watched last week. He never did see the ending.

"Hear about what?"

Behind John, Cap's voice entered before he did. John hastily stepped aside to let him enter. 

"Hey, Cap. Wait til you—"

"Not now, Kelly." Cap cleared his throat. "DeSoto. Can you come to my office for a minute?"

John darted a look over to Roy, who leaned against the counter. He was still pouring his coffee, but his brow was furrowed together. He looked over to John. John shrugged.

"Uh, we'll be there in just a sec, Cap."

"No. No." Cap placed a hand on John's chest, stopping him in his tracks. "Just you, Roy. There are two detectives to see you."

Detectives? John stiffened. "Cap, whatever they said Roy did, he didn't do it. I was with him the whole time. Even yester—"

"Easy there, Gage." Detective Crockett appeared off Cap's shoulder. He nodded to Roy. "No one's accusing you two of anything."

The familiar face didn't do anything about the knots in his stomach. And Crockett's assurances didn't help either. John shrugged a shoulder and gulped the scowl he felt breaking through.

"Oh. Well...alright...don't mean to...you know." John rubbed a finger under his nose. He sniffed. "Just...the last time a detective wanted to talk to us, we were accused of sticky fingers." 

"Sorry about that." Crockett drawled. He didn't look offended which was good. It never paid to be on the bad side of the law.

John lifted his shoulders once again. "S'alright. Don't bother me anymore. Roy might still be a bit sor— _Oof_." John couldn't dodge the elbow in time. He glowered at Roy as he followed Cap and Crockett out. 

"Wonder what that's all about?" Chet wondered out loud as soon as the door shut.

"I don't know, don't ask me." John shoved his hands in his pockets. He scoffed, made to turn away, but he didn't feel like coffee. Why had he come in here in the first place? Why were there _two_ detectives who wanted to talk to Roy? "I wasn't invited to be part of the conversation," John mumbled. 

John looked at Chet. Chet looked at Marco. Marco looked at Mike.

The door nearly smacked Chet in the rear as everyone scrambled outside.


	5. Chapter 5

Roy wasn't worried. No. He wasn't. Detective Crockett promised no one were accusing them of anything. And he knew he hadn't done anything wrong. Cap didn't look worried. And whatever it was, John said (very loudly) that he would vouch for Roy. 

Besides, Crockett said they weren't being accused of anything.

"So what..." Roy cleared his throat when he heard it crack. "What can I do for you?"

There was another detective waiting in Cap's office, boldly helping himself to Cap's chair, scribbling furiously into a small flip notepad. He rose to his feet, like a huge oak tree rising towards the horizon. He wore sunglasses even though they were indoors, his bleached blonde hair was combed neatly and parted off the side. He reminded Roy of one of those movie posters of actors staring off into some unseen sunset and he suspected John would have immediately disliked him. 

"You're DeSoto?" It was like a semi barreling through a tunnel; nothing but bellow. 

" _Fireman_ Roy DeSoto, one of our paramedics," Cap said before Roy could speak. 

Roy started at Cap, but Cap was leaning against one of his file cabinets and staring unblinking at the detective. 

"Roy, this is Detective Clay Barton," Crockett introduced after clearing his throat. "Thought it might help if I came by and introduced him." 

"Is he the one?" Barton cut in impatiently. He looked over to Crockett. He was tapping his expensive looking shoes. He snorted, didn't bother waiting for a reply. He stuck a meaty hand out towards Cap. "Detective Barton, Captain. I'm here to ask your man some questions." 

Cap didn't take the hand. He just looked at it, arched an eyebrow then nodded towards Roy. "Well. He's right here," he said mildly. 

Barton's mouth thinned. "DeSoto," he said curtly. "I'm Detective Barton. Wanted to talk to you about Louie the Fish."

Roy raised an eyebrow. "Who?" He eyed the detective. Barton. Barton. Why did the name sound familiar? Oh. His eyes widened.

"The gunshot victim from Monday's fire." Roy glanced over to Cap, who shrugged one-shouldered. "He died, didn't he?"

Barton's eyes narrowed. "Who told you he died?"

Distracted, Roy muttered, "My partner mentioned it—"

"Partner?"

"John Gage," Crockett supplied.

Barton dragged his gaze from Crockett back to Roy. "Who is this John Gage? How did he hear about this?"

Roy shot him a frown. What's Barton's beef? "He heard about it when he was in Rampart. And what do you mean 'who is he'? I just said: he's my partner."

"That gunshot victim," Barton bit out, "is Louie the Fish, the Martel family's accountant. And we didn't exactly announce his death to the press." Barton blew out sharply through his nose. "How well do you know this John Gage?"

Something sharp shot up Roy's spine. Something flared from deep in his gut. 

"What are you getting at?" Roy asked tightly.

Barton shrugged, not noticing Cap straightening away from the file cabinet or Crockett flicking him an uneasy look.

"I'm thinking this John Gage seems to know an awful lot about Louie, things even the police aren't sharing."

"And you're thinking my partner...what?" Roy's nostrils flared when Barton sneered and shrugged again. Roy's voice rose before he could think about it. 

"Are you kidding? You think Johnny has something to do with—" 

Barton's smirk deepened at the word 'Johnny'. "Mister Gag—"

" _Fireman_ Gage," Cap said in a cold voice Roy hadn't heard before, "has been a fireman for years, a valued paramedic almost as long and Fireman DeSoto's partner for over three years. You can't get a better man than him. I would stake my career on that!"

Roy thought he heard a noise outside. When he checked the door, he saw nothing. He wouldn't look back at Barton. If he did, he might cut his knuckles on Barton's glass jaw.

Crockett sighed. "Told you we should have spoken with both Gage and DeSoto."

Barton grunted.

Cap took it as consent. He folded his arms. Out loud, he said, "Come on in, John." He leaned around Roy, looked pointedly at the door and cleared his throat.

There was the sound of a shoe scuffing the floor before the door cracked open.

 

 

By the time John and the others reached Cap's door, Roy was yelling at someone. Loudly. 

John exchanged a look with Marco. It wasn't clear what was going on, but whatever it was: Cap's door closed, Roy yelling ( _yelling_?) and now suddenly it was quiet, it couldn't be good. 

"What are they saying?"

John nearly jabbed Chet in the gut and smacked his face on the brick wall when Chet's question sounded in his left ear. 

"I don't know," hissed John. He pressed closer to the door. Marco's elbow was digging into his lower back as he leaned in as well.

"I can't hear what they're saying," Chet whispered.

"And you think _I_ can?" John glowered at Marco and Mike. They took a step back before they finished squashing him to the wall and fractured a rib or something.

Chet shrugged and leaned away from the edge of the door. He slipped his hands in his pockets and rested his elbows on the squad's hood. 

"Aw, it's probably nothing." Chet nodded to the door. "Doesn't have anything to do with us anyway. I don't care."

John snorted to himself. Uh huh. He smirked, ready to correct Chet when Cap's voice rang out loud and clear even through the door.

"Come on in, John."

John gulped. When he checked over his shoulder, everyone had skedaddled out of there. What pals. He cleared his throat, fingercombed his hair, checked his boots and entered.

Roy shot him an exasperated look but he didn't look surprised either. Cap wasn't in his chair for whatever reason. He stood by the file cabinet, arms folded in front of him, an eyebrow high into his hairline. He didn't appear surprised either. John figured he should feel insulted or something.

"I'm Detective Barton," a hulking tall movie star type figure spoke up. He stood with one hip against Cap's desk. He interrupted Crocket, who had opened his mouth to probably introduce him.

"How are you?" John returned with the broadest grin he could muster up. He extended his hand. When Barton didn't take it, John fought back the face he wanted to make, let his hand drop and glanced over to Roy. Roy, however, didn't look back; he was openly glowering at Barton. Yikes. Roy hadn't even looked this mad when John had blabbed to Joanne about him liking Mike's spaghetti better. 

"Uh..." John wished someone would say something. "Anything I can do for you, detective?"

Barton studied him up and down like John was a trout and he was weighing whether he should keep him or throw him back. Roy stirred behind John.

For Pete's sake, this was getting ridiculous. John cleared his throat. "So," he said loudly. "Uh..."

Barton shoved a photograph inches from John's nose. "What do you know about him?" 

"What?" Startled, John took a step back. Roy's hand steadied him from behind. John squinted at the photograph. He didn't try to take it. Barton didn't offer. 

"Who's he supposed to be?" John asked, baffled. The picture was a fuzzy, blurry portrait of a tall, broad-shouldered man with receding brown hair, shaved close to his skull. His face was unclear, shadowed under the overhang of whatever storefront he stood under, but the sneer on his square face wasn't what John would call friendly.

"You tell me, Gage." Barton said tersely. "Friend of yours?"

"Now wait a minute!" Roy exploded from behind John. Whoa. Roy looked like he wanted to lunge forward to get to Barton. John stepped into Roy's path and sure enough, Roy stopped because he was not about to knock John aside to get at Barton.

It didn't stop Roy from raising his voice at Barton, though.

"How many times do I have to tell you, my partner had nothing to do with your Louie the Fish—"

"Who the heck is Louie the Fis— _Oh_ , was he the gunshot victim?"

"You seem to know a lot, Gage. How the hell did you get your information? Who's lining your pockets? Was this man in Rampart—"

John stared at Barton, mouth open. This was worse than being accused of sticky fingers. "Wha—Wait, you think—"

"Carl," Crockett tried. His hand was angrily shrugged off.

Barton was turning so red, John was tempted to check his carotid. "Did you tell this to Campbell?"

"Who?" It felt like John was stuck on a carousel going round and round. It didn't help that Roy was growling, raising his voice like a man possessed. What the heck had gotten into him?

A sharp whistle killed all the voices. Cap lowered his hand. He was still slouched against the cabinet.

"I think," Cap said mildly, but John caught a muscle in his jaw twitch, "We should try this again."

Crockett shot Cap a grateful grimace. He took off his glasses, cleaned them carefully with a pocket handkerchief as he spoke. He adopted Cap's low and even voice.

"The fire on Monday, where Roy found the gunshot victim, his name was Louie the Fish—"

"Accountant for the Martel family. You said that already," Roy interrupted. "We didn't know who the patient was until just now." 

"Roy," Cap muttered under his breath. Roy slumped back against the wall.

Barton sucked in his breath; he looked like he was reining in something louder when he bit out, "Louie the Fish died that night, but that's not public knowledge. How did _you_ know, Gage?"

John shrugged. "Despite Rampart's reputation, it's a small hospital. Word gets around. Nurses, doctors, they talk."

Barton didn't appear too thrilled with that answer but Crockett cleared his throat. Another deep breath that seemed to lift up his entire chest, Barton released it between his lips. He lifted up the photo again, this time not right in front of John's nose.

"So you didn't pass that information on to Campbell here?"

"I don't even know _who_ Campbell is," John burst out, frustrated.

"He doesn't even know who he is," argued Roy, at the same time.

John stood next to Roy, against the wall. He bumped shoulders with his partner, relieved when Roy deflated, calming down. 

"Campbell's the Martel's enforcer." 

Enforcer? John exchanged a look with Roy. Enforcing wha— _Oh_.

"You mean like the _mob_?" John yelped. He caught Roy realizing it too.

Roy swallowed. "So when you said Martel family, you meant family as in—"

"One of the last few surviving Prohibition families since Chief Parker's war on organized crimes." Crockett pulled out a few more photographs which he passed to John.

"Louie the Fish called me, said he wanted to testify," Barton said reluctantly. "By the time I got to the address where he was hiding out, the place was up in flames."

John allowed himself to make a face now, although it was more towards the photos in his hand. He passed them to Roy.

Crockett nodded to those photos. "We had men tailing him as soon as he arrived in LA but they lost sight of him a day later. We suspect Campbell here might have had a talk with Louie, then started the fire to get rid of the evidence."

John stared at Crockett. His chest was in knots, weighing down heavy on his gut. "Sixpeople died in that fire."

Crockett nodded grimly. 

"Small potatoes," grunted Barton. He appeared unmoved. He started tapping his pen against his notebook. "He's on loan from the Irish Connors in Chicago. He specializes in large body counts."

John scowled at Barton. He was starting to see why Roy wasn't hospitable to him. The urge to bust his nose was overwhelming.

"Did you see him hanging around the fire or after?" Crockett asked.

John checked with Roy, who shook his head.

"Shoot, these photos could be anyone." John squinted at one. "I think I saw maybe five guys who look like him around the fire, around Rampart, heck, I think I have a neighbor who looks like him!" John crooked a smile as he handed back the photos. "Sorry."

Crockett sighed. "Don't be. It was a long shot. He's never been caught. This is the best photo we have of him and that was only by accident."

"What did Louie tell you?" Barton asked abruptly, his eyes narrowed and glued to Roy.

"Me?"

John glared at Barton. "Roy doesn't know him. First time he saw him was in that fire."

"Several witnesses stated they saw Louie speak with DeSoto after he was pulled out of the fire." Barton folded his thick arms, stretching out his sleeves.

"He didn't say anything," Roy said. He pursed his lips as he remembered. "I think maybe he was trying to tell me something but at the time, I thought he was just getting agitated."

Barton sighed loudly. "That's great. So you can't tell me anything?" He gave Crockett a frown. "Well, this was helpful."

John glowered at the detective. "Look, we're firemen, not the police. Our priority is getting them out of the fire. We didn't know this...Louie...Louie the what again?"

"The fish," Roy supplied with an eye roll.

"Thanks. Louie the Fish. We didn't know he had anything important to tell us," huffed John.

Barton's expression smoothed out. He appeared thoughtful.

"Campbell probably doesn't know that though." There was a gleam in Barton's eye John sure didn't like. "He's probably made DeSoto his next target. That's good."

"What?"

"Excuse me?"

"Are you nuts?"

It wasn't clear who shouted what. Cap, John, and Roy's voices all jumbled up in a mess of loud and louder. But John caught Cap standing away from the file cabinet, arms to his side, Roy staring at Barton like he was the dumbest fool on Earth.

"Joanne," Roy breathed.

John stiffened. "Roy?" He snapped his gaze to Crockett because looking at Barton right now was making him mad.

"We considered there might have been a possibility," Crockett soothed. He nodded towards Barton. "We have a black and white staked out at your house."

It didn't make John feel any better and by the looks of Roy, squinting like he needed glasses, jaw set, neck flushed, it didn't make Roy feel any better either. 

"Let me get this straight," Roy said very slowly. John fidgeted. "There may be a man, who has no qualms killing innocent people, out to get me, possibly my family. You don't know who he is, you're not sure what he looks like and you don't know where he is."

Barton shrugged. "That about sums it up."

John gulped.

 

 

_"I suppose I could stay with the kids over at my mother's,"_ Joanne said slowly, giving Roy a chance to change his mind.

Roy, of course, wouldn't, but he tried to make it sound like he would. He was never a good liar though. Johnny once said he couldn't fib to a brick wall. And it was hard to keep his voice casual with John crammed up between the payphone and television set, making anxious "Well?" faces at him since he had called up Joanne.

"The station needs someone to work overtime." It was hard to concentrate with John nodding frantically, 'coaching' Roy.

"Thought we could use the extra money," Roy fumbled. John grinned toothily at him, giving him a thumbs up. Roy shoved at John's knee. "Johnny needs the overtime to replace his gear anyway." He smirked faintly at John's scowl.

_"Aw, I thought your coat looked flattering on him,"_ Joanne teased.

Roy chuckled. "He doesn't agree." He cleared his throat. "So you'll go to your mother's?"

_"I don't know..."_ Joanne hedged. _"I was thinking it was nice to have a break myself..."_

Roy shot John a wide-eyed look. John perked up. He hopped off his ledge and grabbed the paper off the table. He nearly crashed into Roy's legs when he slid back to the payphone. 

"Uh..." Roy's eyebrow rose as John attacked the paper with a flurry of folding and tearing that reminded him of old Boot. Bits of paper fluttered down to the floor. "Well..." He gave John a questioning frown when John waved the extended weather page towards him. Roy shrugged at him. What the heck was John getting at? 

Roy's eyes widened.

"The weather is supposed to be good the next few days," Roy stammered. He dropped a hand on top of John's bobbing head. His frenzied nodding was making Roy dizzy. "You and the kids could go to the beach. Doesn't your mother live close to a beach?"

_"Yes...It's a nice beach."_

Roy grinned at John. "Well, there you go. Perfect. With me doing overtime, you'll be bored home alone anyway."

_"It would be nice,"_ Joanne agreed. She paused. _"Everything okay?"_

With a start, Roy exchanged a look with John. "Everything's all right. Why do you ask?"

Joanne sighed. _"Nothing. I guess I'm a little on edge with that car circling around."_

"Car? What car?" Roy asked, voice higher. 

John stared at Roy, eyes wide.

_"Oh, there's been a police car patrolling around the neighborhood all day."_ Joanne snorted. _"Abby next door thinks it's because he's trying to catch Mr. Jones taking her trash bins again."_

Roy laughed, strained. He grimaced at the sound in his ears. "I doubt that's something the police looks into, honey."

_"Well, it makes me nervous to see it roaming around like that."_ Joanne sighed. _"I think a few days on the beach sounds nicer and nicer now."_

The tension across his shoulders and down his back washed away. Roy sagged against the wall, suddenly feeling weak-kneed.

"Okay," managed Roy. "You have fun then. Give the kids a kiss from me." He exchanged a few more words with Joanne before hanging up.

"What did she say? Is she going? Is she leaving?" John demanded. He was still holding onto the rumpled newspaper with both fists. 

"Yeah," breathed Roy. "She's going to pack up and head over there now."

"Crockett said they'll follow, make sure she gets there okay." John slumped back into the space between the tv and phone. He exhaled in a whoosh. "She'll be all right." 

Roy closed his eyes briefly. There was still a knot in his gut but it felt easier to breathe around it now that he knew Joanne was going to be safe with his kids. 

"Roy?" John's tentative voice roused him from his thoughts. John crooked a grin at him. It looked shaky. It looked like John didn't feel it. Roy returned it though because John had tried. 

"You okay?"

The wall seemed to be holding Roy up now. Roy's throat felt tight. He laughed, but it sounded weird in his ears.

"I don't know." Roy flapped a hand in the air. "This...the mob? Killing witnesses? It feels like an episode of Adam-12."

"You know," John murmured. His brow furrowed. "I think I remember seeing Reed and Malloy in just the same situation." He brightened. "It turned out okay in the end."

Roy gave him a dubious look. "You watch too much television. I don't think this is going to be resolved in thirty minutes."

"No," John murmured, crestfallen. "You're probably right." He patted Roy on the shoulder. 

Roy thought about Joanne going away. He thought about Crockett's promise that a patrol car was showing up at every run. And he thought about Barton's barely suppressed glee at the thought that they might finally catch Campbell in the act.

"Roy?" John leaned in. He peered up at him. "What's the matter?"

Roy's throat worked. "It's going to be a long shift."

John opened his mouth to say something but then he slowly nodded. Shoulders slumped, hands in his pockets, John breathed out, "Yeah."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, this is the early 70s and male and female attitudes were different then. LOL.

_"Station 51. House fire. 215 Mountain Lane. Two one five Mountain Lane. Six miles off Topeka. A patrol car will meet you there. Time out 1102."_

_"Station 51. KMG 365."_

"Will you cut that out?"

John glanced over at Roy. He tipped his helmet up to see better. "Huh?"

Eyes on the dusty road going uphill, Roy didn't look over but he stuck out one hand and slapped it over John's left knee, stilling it.

Oh.

"Sorry," John offered. He tried to focus on the rising smoke pillar up ahead. He leaned forward, squinted at the ranch house rising up on the horizon. There wasn't a patrol car there. Didn't Crockett say there was go—

_"Johnny."_ Roy's exhale was sharp. "Knock it off."

John paused and heard the last bit of drumming on the dash before he sat on his right hand. 

"Sorry," he mumbled. He sat on his left hand too. Just in case.

"No," sighed Roy. " _I'm_ sorry. Shouldn't have...Sorry."

"S'okay." John grinned at him. He bumped a fist on Roy's shoulder. Roy huffed a laugh, eyes still on the road.

"I don't see anyone around," Roy murmured.

John sobered. "Thought Crockett said..." He straightened and pointed to the black and white parked just behind the gate. A familiar figure stood tall and alert next to a fidgeting, hand wringing homeowner.

"Vince," Roy murmured needlessly. He gave John a smile. "Ready?"

John didn't reply, but he was grinning, feeling loads lighter as he hopped out of the squad, grabbed his gear and hurried to the back of the arriving engine to tug out the hose.

 

 

_"LA, Station 51. This fire is out. Available 15 minutes."_

_"Station 51."_

"DeSoto?"

Roy glanced up from the canteen he was holding. He caught Vince giving John an arched eyebrow as his partner helped Marco finish up knocking down smoldering planks with a pike and axe. Each long, burnt piece dropped loudly into a pile. Off to the side, still wringing his gnarled hands, the homeowner flinched.

Green eyes tracking John, Roy realized what Vince was looking at.

"His coat got pretty messed up Monday," Roy explained. He tipped the canteen back and took a long drink. The fire plus the dry air kicked up a lot of dust. Everybody was covered more from that than ash. By the time the fire was out, Roy's throat felt closed up. His stomach had churned throughout the blaze.

It was because of the fire. Sure. 

Roy, for the third time today, resisted the urge to ask LA to connect him to a landline. Calling Joanne constantly would only rouse her suspicions. 

Vince was there to be reassuring and he was. 

For the first three minutes. 

Roy caught the others giving the officer a look. It wasn't standard procedure, but Cap didn't explain and Roy promised Crockett and Barton he would keep it a secret. John appeared relieved to see Vince there. He greeted Vince like it was everyday they saw the police showing up on their runs. But each time Roy caught Vince out of the corner of his eye, it reminded Roy there was another danger lurking in wait for him. 

"Ah." Vince nodded, sympathetic. "Thought I saw John being carried out of there. He alright now?"

The memory of John staggering and stumbling between Chet and Marco gummed up his throat further. The stench of burnt rubber replaced wet wood. Roy could only nod as he took another draught from his canteen.

"That's good," Vince said, distracted. His hand drifted down to his holster.

"What is it?" Roy darted a look over his shoulder, nothing but distant mountains.

"Nothing," Vince muttered. He was still looking about though. "But you should get in the habit of standing behind the squad, Roy."

"Uh. Okay." Roy shifted to the left until he was behind the bay doors on John's side of the squad. He was acutely aware of his height, how his head and helmet stuck out above the roof.

"You should keep your head down too," advised Vince.

Roy laughed, strained. "Vince, we're in the middle of a—"

A crack in the air echoed loud.

" _Roy_!"

"Get down, Roy!"

Roy felt a body slam into him. Before he could brace himself, another grabbed him by the middle. He yelped as he crashed into the dirt, his air rushing out from the weight on top of him.

"Sorry!" the homeowner called out. "Dang muffler! Uh...you boys okay?"

Roy lifted his chin off the ground. He spat out the dust, blinked his eyes.

Chet and Mike were slowly getting up from their tackles. Dust rose as they patted themselves clean. Marco and John were frozen in position, their pike and axe in mid-air, caught in an interrupted downwards swing. They stared at Roy with huge eyes. It was almost comical, but Roy feared if he started laughing now, John was going to have to sedate him.

Vince was glaring at the red-faced owner on top of the tractor he was trying to move. He turned his glower to Chet and Mike, who rubbed the backs of their necks, suddenly fascinated with their boots. And Cap, he had a hand over his face. He was shaking his head.

So much for keeping it a secret. 

 

 

_"Squad 51. Man fallen down steps. 55 West Hills Dr. Five five West Hill Drive. Cross street Coulson. Time out 1215."_

_"Squad 51."_

_"LA, Engine 51 responding with Squad 51."_

_"Engine 51."_

"This is ridiculous."

John checked Roy out of the corner of his eye. It was the first time Roy had spoken to him since he found out everyone knew about him being a witness. He opened his mouth to say something but he saw Roy's hands wrap tighter around the steering wheel and decided he better not.

"We don't need an engine for this run." Roy's jaw clenched as he avoided a tan station wagon that tried to cut in front of the squad. Dumb drivers. John gave the car a scowl as they zipped past.

"'Man fallen down steps'," repeated Roy. Guess he wasn't expecting John to answer because he went right on. "Steps. Not stairs. I doubt we'll even need to start an IV."

John shifted in his seat. They could have been really tall steps.

"What?" Roy somehow managed to glare at John out of the corner of his eye.

Whoops, John must have spoken out loud. Shoot.

"Well..." John made a face at the crack in his voice. "Better safe than uh...sorry."

"For who?" Roy sighed. He seemed to deflate in front of John. "For the guy who fell or for me?"

The crack of that darn muffler still rang in John's ear like tinnitus. He absently stuck a finger in his ear and gave it a shake.

"I didn't see anything. The guy didn't tell me anything." Roy turned the corner that would lead them into West Hills. "I don't need an escort."

John finally spoke up. "Detective Barton thought so. And don't tell me seeing Vince there didn't make you feel better."

"Yeah. I guess so," Roy admitted, reluctantly. "I wasn't talking about that. I was talking about—"

Just then, the engine still doggedly behind them blared its horn at the idiot in the blue sedan trying to cut between them. 

"That," finished Roy.

"They thought it was better to be on the safe side. Just in case." John peered at his side mirror. Seeing the broad face of their Big Red trailing after them settled the queasy feeling in his belly.

"That reminds me..." 

Uh oh. John ducked his head, letting the brim of his helmet dip over his eyes.

"How did the guys know about this? We promised those detectives we wouldn't say anything."

No, _Roy_ promised. John didn't and when he was asked to leave the office, Roy stayed with the others to figure out what to do about his days off. John paced outside the office, finding himself liking Detective Barton even less as he spied through Cap's window to see the guy smirking as he wrote in his little notepad. Barton nodded to whatever Crockett told him but John doubted the younger detective was really listening.

John couldn't stand outside the office anymore. He found himself back in the dorm, remaking his bed, muttering under his breath about smug detectives, bad guys from Chicago and mob families. He was pounding his pillow so hard Chet practically tore it away from him when he checked to see what the commotion was. Somehow, John found himself sitting on Roy's bed, watching Mike and Marco smoothing out the sheets, Chet tossing them a new pillowcase. Suddenly, John couldn't stop talking until Roy called John into the kitchen to call Joanne.

Something must have been on John's face because Roy sighed.

"I guess I would have told the guys myself. It's just that...what if Joanne found out?"

John made a face. "How would she? _I_ wasn't going to tell her! I can keep a secret, Roy!"

For some reason, Roy started, looked at John before he turned back to the road.

Their destination, a rental apartment building in pink and gray, rose into the horizon to meet them. Yeesh. It was fancier than John's building and it probably had two elevators _and_ a swimming pool. Their patient tripped down the steps and probably landed on a pile of silk pillows. 

"There's Vince," John pointed out as the squad rolled up behind a patrol car parked by the curb. He smiled when he heard Roy exhale. "Admit it. You feel better seeing him here."

"All right, all right." Roy nodded as he climbed out of the squad. John followed and slipped into his borrowed turnout coat from his side of the bay. Just in case.

"Still..." Roy waved towards Big Red as it huffed to a stop behind them.

John shrugged as he pulled open the doors to grab the Biophone. He made room for Roy to get the drug box. "Okay, I'll admit it. It makes _me_ feel better seeing them here."

Roy said nothing. But he gave John a knowing smile and a clasp on the shoulder before he jogged towards the building, Vince hot on his heels.

John blinked at Roy's back, baffled. Then he shook out of his trance, hefted his equipment and followed.

 

 

"...thought it was an earthquake—hey, do you have to cut that, it cost me beaucoup bucks, man—because the ground wouldn't hold still and then _oops-a-daisy_!"

Roy resisted rolling his eyes as their patient, a Mr. Harry Price, hiccupped as he told his tale of woe from his spot on the ground of his foyer, his unshaved face splotched with pink, his lower left calf splinted. His audience of amused firemen and two scantily dressed blonde and redhead Good Samaritans surrounded him and John.

"I thought for sure you were dead, Harry," the blonde tittered. She waggled pink-tipped fingers at Chet. "And you firemen responded so quickly! I thought maybe there was a fire when I saw all you men!" She talked breathlessly, chest heaving up and down. Chet manfully averted his eyes and mumbled they were just doing their jobs.

"Our tax dollars at work, Chrissy," Price belched. Marco grimaced from where he was crouched by the victim's head. He sat back on his heels.

The brunette, stooped to peer over John's shoulder, pouted at Price. " _I'm_ Chrissy."

"I'm Christine," the blonde piped up.

"I'm sorry, girls," Price waved a hand lazily in their general direction. He barely missed smacking Roy in the face. "You two are so gorgeous, I can't tell you two apart."

Roy stared hard at the pressure cuff as two giggles responded.

"...ambulance has arrived, Rampart." John was finishing up on the Biophone by the patient's feet. His ears were still pink under his helmet and he had drawn up his collar to cover his flushed neck. Chrissy had stooped down, asking John in a sugar sweet drawl if she could help. That's when he and Roy realized—although John discovered it first inches from his face—that she wasn't wearing a bra under the t-shirt that was too big to be hers. 

"Maybe if you didn't have the tequila, the ground would have been steadier before you three tried to do the limbo," Vince remarked, waving towards the broomstick propped between two coat racks, bound with something suspiciously frilly. 

"You're lucky you didn't break your neck, mister." Vince shot John's back an amused look. His hand, though, dangled against his side, hovering close to his holster.

Price belched again. "It was a business lunch."

At Cap's eyebrow, Christine explained, still sounding like she needed a liter or two of O2 herself. "Harry's our talent agent."

Chrissy nodded. "Harry was helping us with our auditions."

Roy exchanged a look with Marco.

"You sure you don't need any help, Mr. DeSoto?" Chrissy stooped closer as she read off John's coat.

"Say, yours say DeSoto too," Price noticed as Roy twisted around to clean up his equipment to make room for the ambulance attendants. "Is that some sort of team name or something?"

Roy caught John cringing, no doubt feeling Cap's glower on his back. Hopefully, his stuff would get in tomorrow as promised.

"Hey now. Hey, watch the threads!" yelped Price as John and the attendants lifted him onto the stretcher.

"I'll go with the ambulance," Roy told John. He bit back a smile when John mumbled a "Sure" and scooted out with the stretcher to escape Cap's disapproving stare and Chrissy's fascination. 

"What's up with Junior?" Chet snickered as he followed everyone out of the apartment. Cap waved for the bystanders to part, to make way for them as they went for their vehicles.

"Junior?" echoed Vince. He had paused on the pavement until Roy caught up with him. 

Roy groaned. He shot Chet a look as he stepped off the curb. "Knock it off, will you? I'm going to have to listen to him all shif—"

The rest of his words died in his throat when he heard the burning squeal of tires right behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

He was never going to hear the end of it.

John had to remind himself not to throw the IV box into the bays as Marco passed him, bidding him a "See ya later, Junior." At least Chris, Christine, or Chrissy wasn't hovering over him in her thin, baggy t-shirt, showing off her, well, shoot, just thinking about them—er—thos, no, no— _it_ , was making his neck flush hotter as if the mild burns on his back had crawled up to his head.

The bay doors rattled when he closed them harder than he should. John ducked his head as Cap walked by him, distinctively clearing his throat. John mumbled a farewell to Cap, who clapped him briefly on his shoulder. He murmured to John they would meet up at Rampart. The tight feeling in his chest did ease somehow so it was with a faint smile, an eyeroll at the twin "Bye, Harry!" giggled by the building doors, that John jogged around to the squad.

Eyes glued to the back of the ambulance, John tracked Roy chatting with Vince, one boot on the step, about to climb in. John was watching so intently, he almost missed it.

A squeal of tires.

A roar of an engine.

John didn't look behind him. Everything screamed to him there was no time. He heard the squeal of rubber, Mike hollering out his window, so John flattened himself against the squad, arms out, spread out like a starfish. His back throbbed when he smacked the squad with a hollow sounding _thud_.

A blur went by, so fast, John smelled the oil, rubber and exhaust dragging their claws across his face. The wake almost peeled him off the squad and by the time the car was gone, John was winded. It was as if the car stole his breath when it tore past.

Crazy drivers!

John gaped at the trail of exhaust as the dark blue sedan fishtailed before screeching into a corner.

"LA, I need an APB on a..." Vince was shouting into his radio after he gave up his foot chase.

"Is he alright?" Mike shouted. "Is he okay?"

"Did you see that?" one of the girls squeaked.

"Johnny!"

"That guy was nuts! Who lets them on the road?" Someone was yelling in his ear. Why was he yelling? Hands gripped him by the arms, shook out what little air John managed to coax into his frozen lungs. "You okay?"

John smiled but it felt wrong on his face. His skin felt like it was pulled over him too tight. It was hard to move.

"Anyone get the license number of the truck that hit me?" John joked weakly.

"What? The truck that h— _Roy_!"

There was more yelling now, more hands on his arms as if they were trying to prop him up but John was already standing. The squad was a solid presence against his shoulders like a sturdy retaining wall. He could feel Roy gripping his elbow, talking over the shouting, just as loud, just as hurried, a bit high pitche—Wait, wasn't he supposed to be on the ambulance with the patient? 

"Gage said he was hit."

" _What_? Where? Johnny? _Johnny, where were you hit?_ " 

Hands swept behind his head, knocking his helmet off in haste. John blinked dazedly. Oh, it was Roy and Chet—Wasn't Roy going into the ambulance? Wait, hadn't he already said that?

"What the hell happened?" Uh oh, Cap sounded really mad. "Is he okay?"

"Gage said he was hit, Cap—"

"Johnny, look at me." Roy framed his face with both his hands and forced him to look up. Stark green eyes stared at him, wide and unblinking. "Where were you hit?"

Oops. _Dumb joke, Gage._ John tried to focus again, tried to remember how to talk. His lungs still strained for more air. He smiled weakly but for some reason, Roy didn't grin back. He curled fingers over John's wrist, one hand now fumbling for his penlight from his utility belt.

"I wasn't..." Thank God, his voice came back. John shook his head. It'd be easier if everyone would just stop yelling!

"Keep your head still." Roy flicked the penlight into John's eyes. John flinched, nearly hitting his head against the side of the squad. Roy's hand whipped out between his head and the squad before he did though.

"I wasn't hit," John repeated. He weakly tried to wave Roy back. "Was only kidding—Roy, I'm okay. I was...just trying to be funny..."

"Well it wasn't, Gage," Chet snapped, inches from his face but his iron grip on John eased somewhat at whatever he saw.

"I know...I know..." mumbled John. He swallowed convulsively. He was starting to feel queasy. He shouldn't have gulped down that third taco back at the station. He patted Chet on the chest. Almost. He missed, got his chin. 

"Sorry—Roy, I'm okay. Let up, will ya? Let me— _whoa_..."

John had tried to shoulder past Chet and Cap. He took a step. His knees wobbled. In a snap, hands were on his arms, hoisting him up again.

"Shoot," John mumbled. His head felt unbalanced, too big on his neck. John gulped fresh air and tried again. His knees refused to listen to him.

"I'm just gonna..." John waved feebly at everyone as he slid down against the side of the squad. Sitting felt like a really good idea now. "Just...just gimme a minute..." His head spun. His ears were ringing. At least everyone stopped yelling.

Roy caught John under the arms before John could plop down onto the road.

"Chet?" 

"Sure thing, Roy."

There was a whole conversation John suspected he was missing. He raised his head to see what it was and discovered he was walking. Sort of.

"Easy," rumbled Roy by his ear. The hand on his elbow curled, accepting the added weight when John stumbled. "There's a step up over here."

No, there wasn't, John thought, confused. He squinted to where his foot was and realized that it was not the squad's running board. 

John stiffened. "Wait..."

"Chet's going to bring in the squad." Roy's voice dropped to a coaxing tone that John wanted to obey, but then he heard the squad purring to a start behind them.

"I can drive the squad." John shrugged out of Roy's grip. "I can—" His foot slipped off the step.

Roy's arm slipped around his middle, stopping what would have been an embarrassing collision of his chin with the ambulance floor.

"Roy, I'm okay. It didn't hit me," John protested as he was hauled up into the ambulance by Roy's firm grip around his torso and someone's push from behind. "Wait..."

"I know it didn't hit you," Roy agreed too easily. "But let's take it easy for the ride over, okay?" He prodded John towards the bench. "Give yourself a chance to catch your breath."

John tried to ease down on the bench but at the last moment, his knees gave out again and he dropped into the bench with a grunt and a sore rear.

"Why don't you...here..." 

Roy's hand slipped over the back of John's neck and pushed him gently until he was bent forward, elbows on his knees, head hanging low.

"Deep breaths," Roy advised.

"Maybe..." John swallowed as he stared myopically at the tips of his boots. He couldn't lift his head up under the weight of Roy's hand on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing at the base of his skull until the pounding in his ears he hadn't noticed before started to ebb.

"Maybe," John fumbled out. His tongue felt thick and stupid. _He_ felt thick and stupid. "...I'll just sit here for a second."

The doors shut and the ambulance started to move; his belly rolled with it. John gulped.

"Sounds like a good idea," Roy said. He kept his hand on John's neck. "Come on. Deep breaths, partner."

Out of the blue, Harry Price woke from his alcohol induced nap on his stretcher. He whistled.

"Looks like you're having a bad day, DeSoto. Seems to me, you could use a drink." Price then began laughing, a sawing sound that ended in a belch.

John grimaced but didn't offer to correct Price. He exhaled, tried to settle his belly as it continued to flip-flop. 

When Roy quietly suggested John sit back and rest his eyes for a bit, John didn't argue.

 

 

_"LA, Station 51 on a Code I. Available from Rampart in twenty minutes."_

_"Station 51."_

"Really, Gage. I'm flattered."

Roy stood there, leaning against the wall cabinet. He bit back a smile as he caught John's profile screwing up to a scowl when Morton entered Exam room three.

"You know I don't give discounts, but keep this up, I may have to consider it," Morton continued cheerfully. His good mood seemed to go up as John's went down. He didn't appear bothered at all that he needed to get past Vince to enter his own exam room. Morton sobered when he looked over at Dix though. She pulled down the stethoscope from her ears and filled out the clipboard with the latest BP.

"Looks good," Morton murmured as he scanned the readings Roy took periodically from the ambulance to the exam room.

"Holding steady," Dix commented. She patted John on the knee. John grunted but didn't say anything. He couldn't. Dix had threatened John that if he didn't keep the thermometer under his tongue, she was going to stick it somewhere else more embarrassing. 

"Looks like you just got the wind knocked out of you," Morton decided.

The thermometer's silver bulb tipped up as John straightened from his perch on the gurney.

"Thass wha ah old..." John's shoulders slumped under Dix's glower.

"I think what Johnny's trying to say," Roy spoke up, taking pity on his partner, "was that's what he figured happened." Thank God. Roy still remembered how his heart seemed to slam hard against his ribs when he saw John abruptly hit the side of the squad, the car zipping by. It was so close; it hit and knocked the side mirror on the squad cockeyed although no one discovered it until they got to Rampart.

Morton folded his arms across his chest, his dark face furrowed in thought. 

"I would recommend sitting out the rest of the shift..." Morton raised an eyebrow at John's frantic headshake.

Dix cleared her throat. John turned his eyes to Roy; they reminded him of Boot whenever Chet grabbed him to give the dog a bath. 

Roy rubbed the back of his neck. Oh boy.

"Uh, is that really necessary, Doc?" Roy started but John interrupted with a series of muffled syllables and hand gesturing. Either his partner was trying to plead his own case or he was guiding a small aircraft down.

Dix snorted uncharacteristically, reached over and retrieved the thermometer from John's mouth. It slipped out with a _pop_.

And John went on as if he hadn't been interrupted.

"...fine. I can rest up when my shift is over. Don't even feel nauseous anymore."

Wait a second, Johnny didn't say anything about _that_.

John flinched; no doubt sensing Roy's glare boring through his back.

"Uh..."

"Temperature's normal," Dix reported wryly as she showed the glass piece to Morton. "There's some doubts about the patient though." She pointedly ignored the narrowed look cast her way. 

"All right," Morton decided, "Against my better judgment, I think it's okay to stay on shift—"

"Great." John hopped off the gurney before Morton could finish.

Morton smirked as John shrugged into his turnout coat, barely missing hitting Dix in the eye. He waited until John ducked out the door.

"Take it easy...Junior!"

Roy hurried after his partner before the indignant squawk he heard became yet another tirade. He exchanged a look with Vince before rejoining the others gathered in the waiting room. Yes, he did feel better with Vince standing sentry, but he gets what John meant about seeing the rest of the guys. He found himself not checking each face that walked past him as he reunited with everyone.

So when everyone's handie talkies rang out again, Roy thought about heading out to the next run and nothing else. As he climbed into the squad, John sliding in next to him, Roy briefly forgot there was a man still out there who wanted to kill him.


	8. Chapter 8

_"Station 51. Man trapped. Six miles off Verbena Overpass, Ramp 15 between the 17 and 45. Ambulance is responding. Time out 1327."_

_"Station 51."_

"Oh man." John tipped his helmet back in dismay. He craned his head back as far as he could to consider the tan and white station wagon seesawing on the edge of the transition ramp. Even now, no wind in sight, it rocked, its front half hovering hundreds of feet above the grassy drop that stood between the 17 and 45. The wagon's crumpled bumper sneered down at the firemen.

"Witnesses say the car was fine but then it started swerving. It crashed through the guard rails and went right for the edge."

"Could be a cardiac," Roy murmured next to him. He passed a lifebelt to John. 

John nodded. Luckily something must have caught under the car's undercarriage, stopping a fatal descent to the ground below. He strapped the belt on, his fingers easily finding the buckles. He kept his eyes on the car. The sun, now at its peak, glinted off the windshield and bounced back a white glare that was almost hurt his eyes to look at.

"Roy, I can't see how many people are in there," John said. "And Mike can't get the engine in close enough without adding too much weight on the ramp. You see anything?"

"No." Roy sounded as frustrated as John felt. "Sun's too bright. Might be able to get to the pedestrian side of the overpass behind us and get a look see, but..."

John's mouth twisted. There were already a bunch of cars stopped on one of the bisecting ramps, gawking at the scene across the system of overpasses and exits that crisscrossed high above the freeways.

"I'll see if I can get one of my guys over there to clear the area and take a look inside that car." Vince turned away and jogged back to his patrol car.

"Roy," John said as he pointed to the wagon. "You see that? I don't think we've got time to wait for Vince. Car's ready to tip over. We're gonna lose her."

As if to prove John's point, the car groaned, leaned and tilted forward a bit more. John could feel everyone tense around him. When the car tipped back though, no one really relaxed.

Cap was still talking low and urgent to the handie talkie he held close to his mouth. He sighed and pulled it away.

"Ladder's fifteen minutes away."

"Cap, I don't think whoever is in that car has fifteen minutes." Roy nodded to the car. "If we can get ropes on its rear bumper, I think it'll give us enough time to slide down the top of the vehicle and get whoever is inside out."

"I think it should be just one of us, Roy." John pressed his mouth thin, thinking. "Better be me." He flicked his eyes to Roy then back at the car, then at the drop. His stomach tightened. "Yeah, I think I should do it." Before Roy could protest—John could see it coming like a distant storm cloud—John added, "I'm lighter." He smirked.

Sure enough, Roy's mouth snapped shut and he scowled at John, but even with that, John could see from the furrow between Roy's brow, he wasn't fooled.

Cap looked at them both. He pursed his mouth, eyes darting between them before he grunted. "I'll radio Kelly and Lopez to anchor that car. Ambulance is already up there. Nice and slow, John, all right?"

John shifted from foot to foot. If he shimmied over the roof, he could probably go in through the passenger side door. Shoot, unless there was someone in there with the driver. He could try to go in through the rear window but breaking that glass could send the car over too. Maybe if Mike—

"All right, John?"

With a start, John realized both Cap and Roy were looking at him expectantly. He nodded quickly, too quickly judging how their frowns only deepened.

Cap looked like he was going to change his mind so John backed a step towards the incline that led up to the ramp.

"Come on, Roy," John muttered. He nodded again, slower this time as he grabbed the coil of rope Roy wordlessly gave him.

"Nice and slow, Cap," John promised. He looped the lines of rope over a shoulder. He jogged after Roy up the hill to the ramp. The car bobbed hello out of the corner of his eye as they reached its level.

John gulped. Yup, nice and slow.

Unless it really was a cardiac.

 

 

_Please don't let it be a cardiac._

Roy watched from his position by the rear bumper as John cautiously slid on his rear across the roof. John wiggled forward inch by inch. His blue shirt was soaked through on the back by the time he'd made his way to the front. The car groaned when John tried to lean forward to peer through the windshield.

The lifeline John was tethered to, gripped tightly by Marco and tied to Big Red, appeared too thin, too inadequate as it trembled and shivered taut. Each time John asked for more slack, his words were tight, tossed over his shoulder, brisk and economical. And each time the line eased to give John the requested inches, Roy fought the urge to lunge for the line himself.

Roy's right foot bore all its weight on the rear bumper. His left heel dug into the soft dirt that lined the torn guardrail. He wrapped his right elbow around the frame of the shattered rear passenger side window.

Chet mirrored him on the other side with his left leg and arm. The look he gave to Roy across the shuddering car spoke volumes.

This wasn't going to be enough.

The car's heavy front half was completely off the ramp. The ramp hung over a drop of at least a hundred and fifty feet with nothing to offer below but hard ground with withered yellow grass. 

The back of the wagon balanced on the soft dirt that was still dissolving and the edge of the ramp. Going through the rear window was not an option now.

Roy and Chet's combined weight added the necessary stability six ropes on the rear bumper couldn't provide. Still, Roy could feel the car rocking like a boat on the sea, its rear wheels briefly touching the ground before bouncing gently back up again.

"More slack," John bit out. "Almost there."

The car shifted. Metal keened as the remaining pieces of guardrail buckled little by little, unable to bear the weight. 

John kept freezing, his limbs locked in place in a way that reminded Roy of his kids playing Red Light, Green Light in the back yard. But here, no one was laughing.

Abruptly, John leaned over the roof to peer upside down into the driver's side window. Roy's warning shout lodged in his throat. 

"Geez, Gage!" Chet didn't seem to have the same problem. "Take it easy, will you?"

"It's just the driver," reported John. He sounded breathless. "He's slumped over the wheel."

Roy gritted his teeth as the car swayed too far forward under John's weight. His left knee ached, his leg stiff in position as he dug his heel deeper into the wet slush of dirt and sand.

"Can you get a carotid?" Roy asked between his teeth.

John straightened. He had one hand flat over the top of his helmet, one hand curled on the roof edge. He was flushed from hanging upside down.

"Nah." John looked grim. "Window's shut. I can't get a carotid. Breathing looks to be labored." He cautiously set both palms on the roof and inched closer to the other side. 

"Roy, she's slipping," Chet ground out. "Whatever you guys are gonna do, do it now."

"You think you can get in through the windshield?" Roy shouted.

The car groaned and lurched. Roy found himself skidding forward. Damn it!

John's eyes were huge, his arms straight as he grabbed the roof on both sides. 

"No way. If I get down there, it'll go over for sure." John swallowed as he eyed the left side of the roof. 

"I'm gonna try to get in through the passenger's side. Backseat looks clear. Maybe we can risk putting him on a backboard and slide him out the—Whoa!"

There was a tiny _ping_ that was almost drowned out by the crackling sound of the windshield shattering. Chet yelped when the rear windshield exploded simultaneously. Glass splintered. Roy felt the heat of a flying shard slicing over his cheek, missing his left eye.

John barely had time to yell before he slipped completely off the car.

 

 

_Nice and slow, Gage. Nice and slow._

As John made his way to the front of the car, he caught a glimpse of all the cars stopped on the overpass across from them. He screwed up his face. Great. At least the bystanders were too far away to be in the way this time. He sort of understood the fascination, yet it bugged him how often they had to veer around people with no sense to stay back. 

John had been tempted before to give them a wave, but that thought was only fleeting as he crawled to the front. The news wasn't good. And they were running out of time. He could tell from Roy's clipped response and how the car still bobbed despite the ropes. 

There was no other way; they couldn't wait for the ladder. The driver became his patient the moment John sighted him. John's gone this far. He wasn't about to leave his patient now. 

Teeth clenched, John eased his way to the other side of the car. The car began to rock not up and down, but side to side.

John's left boot skidded constantly on the roof, but his toecap would catch itself on the top of the windshield. John didn't think it was worth mentioning it though. Roy sounded like _he_ was on the car and the last thing his partner needed to worry about (besides the whole 'there's a mysterious unscrupulous killer out there to get you') was the fact that John's boots felt like they were standing on oil right now. Roy was having a bad enough day.

Marco was being stingy about the slack he gave John's line. A few tugs got barely an inch from him. For Pete's sake, how was he gonna get to the other side like this? John told Roy his plan, was about to gripe to Marco to give him more than an inch of slack each time when his darn left foot slipped again.

Out of nowhere, there was a thin whine, like someone had tore a sheet of metal by his ear. John jolted.

The front windshield under his foot was suddenly...not there.

John heard glass breaking.

John heard Roy shouting.

John heard the car groaning as it tipped crookedly to his right. He tumbled off the roof and rolled off the hood.

Did he yell? It felt like he did. John's throat felt scraped raw, dry and strained as he felt the lifeline he was hooked to snap taut.

John yelped when he slammed into the front bumper. 

His helmet tipped, banged against the hood of the car then flew off his head. Shoot. There went another one.

There were shards of glass raining down on him.

Chet was hollering something that didn't sound polite.

The ramp underneath the car groaned. The rail made an ear-piercing scratching noise as it clawed the car's belly. Concrete crackled like popcorn as it crumbled and fell.

The car crunched and the hood he had just rolled off of popped open with a screech.

And Roy was still shouting.

So much for nice and slow!

John grunted. His hands whipped out to grab anything and got a grip of the grill and the license plate. He hooked a leg on a piece of rail that had gotten dragged into the car's undercarriage. Just in time. The license plate popped out of its screws, it sliced across his right glove before spinning down below.

"Johnny!" It wasn't clear who shouted. John could barely hear it past the roaring in his ears.

"Marco, do you still have his line?"

"I got it but I can't seem to pull it up. It's caught on something!"

In front of him, John could make out his line, blurry even though it was just off his nose, snarled around the wheel axle. Dimly, he knew he should call out, say something, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the rope.

"Johnny!"

"What the hell happe— _Roy, she's going_!"

John felt the car bow as it slid lower. He found himself staring at the bottom of the ramp. His right foot dangled until he swung it up and braced it into the crazy jumble of guardrail, steel and shredded car.

"Mike! Back her up!"

John grimaced. He could hear the muffler and the axle grinding against the dirt and concrete. Sparks spit angrily as metal scraped metal. Screws snapped. The car seesawed wildly. He swallowed. Oh no. He was getting seasick.

"Stop! Stop!" Roy sounded frantic. "We're just ripping the rear bumper off!"

Boy, John thought dazedly, those guys across from him were probably getting a real good show right now. He pulled himself up a bit more. He froze when he felt the railing his legs were wrapped around start to shift.

"Johnny! Johnny!" Roy was getting hoarse. "Marco, tie his line down and get mine."

That spurred him to speak. John coughed, pulled himself higher. He grimaced when he felt the grill shake. One of the screws was spinning out of its hole. He gulped.

"Roy?" John rasped. He started when he saw Roy's head poke out from the edge of the ramp. Roy didn't seem to notice (or care) the car was groaning and shaking by his ear.

"You all right?" Roy didn't even flinch when the car sank deeper into the dirt. He stuck his hand out but he was a foot short of even brushing against John's hair.

"Yea," John managed. He pulled up and managed to look over the front bumper, into the exposed engine when a loud creak vibrated through the car and into his legs. 

"Roy, get back!" Cap barked out. Roy disappeared briefly after a couple of hands grabbed Roy by the shoulders.

"I can climb back up!" John shouted to be heard above Roy's "Let me go after him!" "Roy, get the guy! Window's busted. We should be able to slide him out of the back now! I—" 

The car dipped, like those martial arts guys he'd seen in movies, bowing (kow kow—towing they called it) and John found himself staring at the undercarriage of the car again.

"Marco!" John yelled as he dug his fingers into the front grill. He jerked his head when a screw broke free and flew past his face. "Marco, throw me another line! I'm gonna cut the other one!"

"You're gonna _what_?" Chet butted in and hollering for some reason, drowning out whatever Marco was about to say.

"It's caught in the tires!" John spat. Mud kept sprinkling down his face. "I can't untangle it! Just throw me another line before this one bre—"

There was that weird sound again: short and shrill, like tearing metal and the rope around the wheel snapped.

Marco grunted, having fallen back like he was at the losing end of a tug-a-war.

"Johnny!" Again, John couldn't make out who it was yelling past the noise in his ears.

"I'm all right!" John eyed the grill's second screw slowly winding out of its hole. "But hurry!"

The new lifeline sailed over high, bounced off John's head and nearly poked him in the eye. 

John was never so glad to see it!

Legs wrapped around the mangled mess of metal, one hand digging into the gap the front bumper made with the car, John knotted the line through the hook on his lifebelt one handed, tugged it tight with his teeth and thought to himself he really, really hoped that would be good enough.

"Alright!" John wondered if they could hear him; the car was grumbling as it kept slipping forward. The hood slammed down by itself as the car dipped.

"Heave!" Cap said. "Come on, _heave_!"

With jerks, John could feel himself being pulled over the hood. His boots caught briefly on the windshield frame, but it also gave John a glimpse of the empty car. Good. They'd got the victim out.

With a hard yank John was unprepared for; he was dragged halfway across the roof in one abrupt move. For one nutty moment, he wondered if this was how a caught trout felt. Then he yelped when another pull dragged him across the rest of the way.

Hands grabbed the back of his trousers, harder than he would have figured necessary. He tumbled, unable to catch his footing and crashed into Chet and Marco. They all fell in a tangle of limbs. 

John lifted himself up on his elbows. He wiped the mud off his face with a sleeve just as muddy. "What's the big idea—"

With a roar, the car nearly folded as it edged closer over the ramp. 

"Get down!" Cap shoved their heads down just as the anchoring ropes snapped.

The car seemed to hang there in mid-air for a second, before it completely tipped over. 

It fell.

John didn't look, still lying there on his belly, gaping at the space where the car used to be. He heard a distant explosion down below. Cars below the ramp honked, a fire engine rumbled and there was the vague indistinct warbling of a police bullhorn but that was it. 

"You were saying?" Chet asked archly. He sat there in his mud streaked turnout coat, his face smudged as if with soot.

John blinked at the open sky, across to the other overpass currently being emptied of onlookers by the police then back at Chet and Marco.

"Nice catch," John managed.

Marco snorted and chucked some mud at him.

 

 

_"Charging at 400…"_

_"…run an IV of…"_

_"...good sinus rhythm, 51..."_

Roy's hands were steady when he popped the ampules, sure and direct when he stabbed the syringe where it needed to be. 

_"Readings look good over here, 51. Transport immediately..."_

His voice was clear when he had first called Rampart. Doctor Brackett answered when Roy radioed. He agreed with Roy about the v-fib; his voice brisk when he told Roy what was needed. Doctor Brackett was calm. Of course, he was. Why wouldn't he be? 

Two lines. IV push. Ten milligrams. Charging at four hundred. Again. Sodium bi-carb. Again. Lidocane. Roy did everything as the training had taught him. But the whole time, from flat line to decent sinus rhythm, all Roy could tell himself, in-between performing the lifegiving instructions, was 'They got him. They got him.'

Roy trusted his station. He fought fires, ate smoke with those guys. He trusted those guys with his _life_. 

Johnny was going to be okay. Roy wasn't going to consider anything else; they weren't going to allow anything else.

Still though...

_They got him. They got him._

"Roy, what do we got?"

There was a steel thread that held up his spine the entire time he was with the patient. It kept his head bowed, shoulders turned away from the precariously balanced death trap. 

That steel vanished as soon as John crouched down on one knee over their patient, penlight in his scraped hand. 

Roy found himself suddenly lightheaded. He fought to keep his voice even. "Hey."

John looked up, quirked a smile at Roy and went back to business. He blinked away trickles of sweat so he could have a better look at the pupils. 

"Uneven and sluggish," John murmured, his brow knitted together. "Roy, how many times you had to za—" He blinked when he raised his head. "Roy?"

Roy cleared his throat. "Three times. At four hundred." He motioned to the attendants pulling the stretcher along. "You alright?"

A pen was clamped between John's teeth as he flipped through his notepad for a clean sheet. "Yea," he mumbled around it. "How many times you said? Two?"

"Three." Roy gave John a scan up and down. 

Pages crinkled as John flipped to a new sheet.

"Did Rampart okay for an IV with—"

Roy didn't wait for John to finish. They never have to with each other. "Yeah. Twenty milligrams."

John didn't ask for clarification or even the drug; he nodded as he scribbled.

Roy narrowed his eyes at John's bowed head. Aside from being covered head to toe in mud, spotted with chalky white concrete sand on his hair and pants, John looked relatively okay. Nevertheless, Roy's insides were knotted up as he tallied up the damage he did see.

"You sure you're okay?" Roy said. He kept one eye on his patient as they lifted him onto the stretcher.

John nodded, impatiently waving Roy off as he tucked the IV bag under the patient's shoulder and settled the heart monitor between his legs. They followed the stretcher to the ambulance. 

"You hit that car pretty hard before."

"I'm alright. I'm alright...Well, er, except..."

Roy stiffened. "What?"

Sighing loudly, John pivoted around, walked backwards as he gestured towards his head. "I lost another helmet, Roy. And..." He pulled off his right glove with his teeth. He made a face. "Ugh. Mud. Look!"

Roy wasn't sure if he was relieved or wanted to haul his partner into the ambulance by his collar. "Again?"

"This is one expensive shift," mourned John. "My coat, my gloves, my helmet—"

"Looked like you got a rip in your pants too, Gage. Left side," Chet pointed out as he went by. "Ladder's here, Cap."

Cap grunted. "Good, _they_ can put out the fire."

Roy patted John on the shoulder as John sputtered, glaring at the lower part of his dark trousers. 

"Wha...do you believe this, Roy?"

Roy climbed into the ambulance, accepting the Biophone John passed him. "You okay to drive, partner? I mean, you practically got nothing on!"

"Now there's a scary image," Marco quipped behind them as he wound up the lines they used for the rescue.

John shot Marco and a snickering Chet a glower as he jogged to the squad. "I can drive. See you at Rampart!" 

Roy could only afford a smile, a wave, his focus back on his patient as Cap shut the ambulance doors for him, a meaty slap on them to tell the ambulance it was good to go.

As the ambulance wailed into motion, Roy absently wondered what could have made that odd little round hole in Johnny's pants.


	9. Chapter 9

_"LA, Station 51 returning to base."_

_"Station 51."_

"I don't believe this."

John glowered at his bandaged finger, poking out of the rent of his right glove. He sat in his locker, newly showered, wearing his spare trousers and shirt. His boots lay on their sides, smelling faintly of polish.

"Roy, do you see this?" He wiggled his finger through the tear towards his partner.

Roy apparently ran out of sympathy. "I did see it. The whole time from Rampart and back. Dix saw it too. And Morton."

John scowled at the mention of Morton. He shook his covered finger again in the air.

"I think he did this on purpose. Why did it have to be Morton again? And did he have to wrap it up like this?"

"You tore off a nail right through the glove," Roy reminded him. The corner of his eye twitched. "Be glad he still let you stay on duty."

Like John has a choice. "I'm gonna need to pull overtime for three days before I can replace all this." John slapped the glove lightly on his knee.

"Don't you have spar—Let me guess..." Roy leaned on the wall by his locker. He folded his arms in front of him. "Those _were_ your spares."

"My uniform allowance isn't big, Roy," John groused. "I can replace a helmet, maybe some gloves on it, but all this?" He poked at his trousers. At least he had spares back in his apart—He groaned.

"What?"

John wearily waved towards himself. "I had my spare shirts cleaned and left them in my apartment."

"Oh. Maybe the damage wasn't too bad." Roy was usually for the worst case scenario. Boy, John must really be in a bad way if Roy was trying to look at the brighter side.

"I guess I'll be eating peanut butter sandwiches for the next month." John made a face. It wasn't fun the last time he had to do that. Peanut butter _used_ to be his favorite.

"You know, we could ask Cap to talk to headquarters. Maybe they'll let you hold out on the coat until next month. You could keep my coat and replace the cheaper stuff first."

John smiled wearily at Roy. He felt a warmth in his chest that quelled the restless turning in his stomach.

"No offense, Roy. But I would rather have my own stuff."

Roy shrugged, smirking.

"Aw, did you hear that, Marco? _Junior_ wants his own gear." Chet emerged from the dorms with a smirk, his hands in his pockets.

Marco snickered. "They grow up so fast, don't they, Roy?"

Roy threw up his hands, not wanting any part of that conversation but John did catch the grin on his face before he suddenly became fascinated with washing his hands.

John growled, "Chet, knock—" He yelped when a pair of gloves dropped on his head then fell into his lap.

"I want those back, Gage," Chet said, head buried in his locker. "I got those specially made from that guy in Pomona."

John held them away from him. He made a face. "If you're that worried I'll break them, then why give them to me?"

Marco dropped a helmet on John's head. His spare. "Anything to stop your whining," he said but there was little heat in it. He crooked a grin at John.

Pushing the brim up with a thumb, John grinned back. He wiggled his fingers into the gloves. He frowned.

"They're too big," John complained. He tugged at the hems and felt the leather snap back loosely over his palms.

"Hey. Not my fault you got dainty hands, Gage. Remember, if you rip those, you're buying me two pairs." Chet swatted towards John. He missed but didn't bother trying again as he sauntered out, Marco following.

"Two?" John grumbled. He eyed Roy. "What's so funny?"

Roy shook his head, but his mouth was still curved up. "Nothing. Just thought it was nice of Chet, that's all."

John snorted but even the corners of his mouth wanted to twitch up. "I suppose. Although you hear him trying to get me to buy…Wait a minute." John bristled.

" _Dainty_?" 

Before Roy could reply, before John could tear after that rotten Chet, the tones rang out for Station 51, Engine 8 and Ladder 18. John shoved his feet into his boots and hopped after Roy.

 

 

_"Station 51, Engine 8, Ladder 18. Possible gas leak. Corner of Wilson and Orange. Time out 1531."_

_"Station 51."_

_"Engine 8."_

_"Ladder 18."_

_"LA, deputy responding on scene with Station 51."_

Roy heard John groan next to him as he parked the squad across from the six story structure. When he stepped out of the cab to take a better look for himself, Roy bit back a groan of his own.

"I thought the address sounded familiar," Roy muttered.

"I'm guessing it's the furnace," griped John as he shrugged into his gear. "Wanna bet his construction permits are expired? Again?"

Roy shook his head. "Not if I want to lose money," he muttered. He considered the drab dirt brown structure, still covered with scaffolding in front (the owner had never taken it down after his last failed inspection). 

The engine rolled up behind the squad. Marco hopped out of it. Chet was already climbing up to the hose beds as soon as Cap told him to get the inch-and-a-halves.

"Hey, isn't that—"

"Yeah, Marco. We know," John said wearily. "Three violations." He shrugged into his breathing gear as he scowled at the building. "I bet the owner didn't fix any of them either."

Roy grimaced. "There was a full house in that hotel the last time we were there." He flicked a look to Cap. 

Cap stood there, fists on his hips, darkly looking at the height of the hotel. Roy could see their captain remembered the reports he and John had submitted from their last round of inspections. He'd forwarded their recommendations about evacuating the residents to headquarters. That was last week.

"We're going to have to check each floor," Cap muttered. Louder, "Shut down the elevators. We'll check the upper floors. Chet, run a line—"

On the third floor, at the south face, a window blew out with a bellow of smoke. Glass sparkled briefly in the afternoon sun before dropping down on the arriving Engine 8 and Ladder 18. Roy saw the arriving firemen hunched down in their seats. Thankfully, they appeared to be okay as one by one, they emptied their engines to grab the hoses.

John exchanged a look with Roy. The explosion had very little fire with it. That was actually bad.

"Damn," Cap swore. He seemed to agree with John's silent assessment. "Marco, get on the horn with LA. We're going to need the gas and power turned off in case they never fixed the wiring—"

A window on the fifth floor shattered. Someone screamed. Others stuck their heads out of windows, hollering, panicked.

Again, there was little fire but a lot of smoke, thick and white, filled the sky. Briefly, the sun was shrouded, sending the street into shadows.

"They didn't fix the wiring," Roy sighed. They all exchanged a look, pulled their masks over their faces. Without prodding, they jogged towards the hotel, shouldering past the masses running away from it.

 

 

_"LA, Station 51. Respond an additional ladder and a squad for a second alarm. Possible trapped victims."_

_"Station 51."_

The woman, coughing and screaming, almost knocked John off the stairs.

Roy's hand planted on John's lower back, steadying him when John stumbled back down a step after the woman in a sky blue bathrobe and white slippers crashed into John.

"Easy! Easy!" John yelped as he fought the instinct to wheelbarrow his arms and used them to right the fleeing woman instead. "Stay calm! Fire department's here. Just two more flights to go, ma'am."

"...Oh God, oh God, I'm sorry! Sorry! T-there's all this smoke! We thought they were just fixing the furn—"

A small explosion above them sent the woman practically climbing John like a tree.

"We have to go! We have to leave! Help me! The building is going to—"

"I got her."

Roy's hand disappeared from John's back as he went up to drop a reassuring arm over her shaking shoulders.

"Ma'am, here, let me help you."

"Roy..." Chet began. Even behind the breathing mask, it was audible how bad of an idea he thought it was for Roy to go anywhere alone.

"It's fine. Cap and Vince are right outside."

John flicked a look towards the staircase rising higher into the ever increasing thick smoke. There were sounds of panic above: the clamor of footsteps, screaming, doors slamming.

"I'll be checking upstairs," John said. He caught the blink Roy gave him, the expression of relief which he waved off before he grabbed the inch-and-a-half behind Marco.

"See you up there! Watch yourself!" Roy supported the woman in the bathrobe and somehow, another woman, older, shorter but just as scared, latched onto his other arm.

John glanced back over his shoulder, watched Roy take the stairs with his two victims. He squared his shoulders and gently went against the flow of evacuees as he followed Marco and Chet up to where the smoke smelled the strongest.

 

 

A burst of flame broke out of a fourth floor door so John left Chet and Marco to fight that demon while he ventured higher.

The fifth floor was empty. All the doors were flung open, some taped off with clear signs of construction.

Regardless, John poked his head into every door. "Fire Department! Anyone in here?"

The fires on the third and fourth floor sent thick black smoke rising to the fifth and sixth floors. Even with the mask on, John thought he could taste it: a gritty, charcoal tang in the back of his throat. He swallowed repeatedly, gulping tanked air to soothe a dry throat he was pretty sure was only imagined. It still took some getting used to: breathing normally despite everything around him telling him he probably shouldn't.

John didn't hear anyone above him. He hoped that meant everyone was evacuated. He tugged his mask lower to cover his chin. He sucked in another breath of air from the tank. 

"Fire department! Anyone in here?"

John checked his boots uneasily when he heard the floor groan. He hoped it was due to age and not fire that made the floor feel like it was a slab of mud. Falling through the floor had little appeal; like a ceiling falling on him. 

At the reminder, John spared the ceiling above him a glance. The ceiling was unblemished save the patches of peeling painting. He tore his gaze away and moved on to the next door.

"Fire dep—"

There was a creak. 

Not under him. Not over him.

Behind him. 

"Don't worry. I'm from the fir—"

John felt a large hand clamp over the back of his neck. Before John could finish, before he could register the glint of silver that reflected off his mask, John was shoved forward through the very door he was going to check.

"Hey! Take it easy! Calm down! I'm with—"

The hand tightened. His mask jerked. 

John realized whoever it was, he wasn't going to let John finish.

The edge of his mask dug into his face as it was tugged again, the hose it was connected to was caught on something. John twisted away. Tried. The hand gripped his neck, forcing him to hunch forward. John stumbled as he was hauled deeper into the room.

The construction warnings were kicked aside, planks of unfinished wood scattering when John was shoved down to his knees. A boot dug into his lower back when he tried to get up.

A flash of light. 

John flinched, but couldn't go far. All he could do was raise his arms up when he saw the steel edge glint above him as it swung down in a striking arc.

 _Hiss_.

With a violent yank, dragging the air mask halfway down his face, his hose was cut. He could feel air sputtering from the slashed hose and the dying remains of air in his mask.

John lurched back. He tried to get the boot tip he could feel digging into his back to get off. The exertion drew tainted air into his lungs. The last of his air mixed with a noxious soup of smoke and gas. His coughing shook his entire body. He was unable to break free of the iron hold around his neck. 

Eyes watering, chest heaving, John tried to regain his footing as he was dragged to a hole in the wall.

Blinded by the burning tears in his eyes, his feet dangling because they couldn't touch the ground, John fought. His elbows felt like they struck a solid wall behind him. The arm around his throat squeezed. John clawed what felt like a two-by-four digging into his Adam's apple.

Abruptly, the arm vanished from under his chin. Before John could twist free, the hand was back on the back of his neck. A hard push and John crashed into the wall. The mask was torn from his face so quickly his skin burned. 

Hands splayed on the wall he was pressed against. John pushed off. A knee dug into his lower back, hard enough he could feel it through his gear.

Another push and his cheek scraped against the wall, to a gaping hole raw with splinters. John could see billows of smoke, thick and black. John could see a wide black pillar, still gleaming with tar, a jagged mouth vomiting smoke. 

The furnace pipe.

It was like being pinned behind the engine. John tried to push off with his feet, his aching hands, but no sooner did he gain an inch, when his face was forced down towards the hole again.

John could hear the furnace pipe groaning, straining as it belched more black poison into the room, into his face. Behind him, the attacker didn't make a sound. He didn't seem bothered by the smoke, while John coughed and gagged. He didn't even grunt when John jabbed an elbow back. John knew he hit him. He did! But he wasn't making a sound.

Wood creaked under them. John could hear his attacker's boots, heavy heeled and scraping along the floor. The guy stayed where he was, unbothered by the fumes, unmoved at the elbows and kicks John tried to rain on him. He stood there, large hands forcing John's face over the hole. 

John could feel himself fading.

No! A jolt went up his spine, one last desperate surge that got him to lock his elbows, flexed his shoulder blades and pushed. Pushed! 

The back of John's head struck something hard and round. He heard a _crack_. A breathing mask. The man gave a startled grunt. He staggered back, giving John a few precious inches away from the hole in the wall. 

But John's lungs burned.

John's knees buckled.

There was a hard knock across his lower back. Or a kick. John wasn't sure. He garbled out a cry, maybe a "No" before he crashed into the wall again. Boneless, he slid to the floor.

As the fumes swirled around him, darkening his vision, John heard his attacker stumble out of the room. The door slammed shut. He heard something outside grind and scrape across the floor before stopping at the door. A thud indicated the door was now blocked.

Chest heaving, John tried to push up on his elbows. Coughing, coughing, coughing so hard, his elbows folded and he dropped to the floor. He reached up, clawed the edge of the hole above him to give him leverage. He pulled, hauled himself up. John got his chest off the floor but his knees wouldn't move, wouldn't lock and he fell back down again.

He didn't try again.


	10. Chapter 10

_...Get up._

_Get up!_

His chest felt tight, like a giant fist was curled around him, squeezing, crushing. With each pulsing throb, his mind screamed for him to get up.

John gagged, coughed, but he moved. 

The tank dug into his aching back when he rolled feebly away from the wall. Or at least he hoped he was rolling away. His eyes streamed with tears and his hands were numb. He barely felt the floor. It was like he was floating. Each lungful of air hurt. If only he could rest for one—

_No!_

With a cry that incited more violent coughing, John moved his limbs. He used his knees like oars, rocking himself to the side, rolling himself away. _Once more. Come on..._

The foul stench of tainted air eased as he moved away, but John could smell it filling the room. Eyes closed—they were swelling shut—John got on his hands and knees. He crawled. 

In training, they were once put in what firefighters jokingly called 'the oven', an enclosed bunker with no windows, slowly growing hotter and darker. Rookies learned to search with their hands, made their way through mazes with the map they drew in their heads, they were often guided by the count they were advised to make the moment they entered the inferno. Lifelines were too susceptible to fire to rely on.

There had been no chance to make a count.

John crawled, hands numb and heavy as lead, knees shaking. Blind, choking, John almost collapsed when his head struck the doorknob. He grabbed it with both hands, used it to haul himself up to his feet.

It wouldn't turn.

A shoulder against the door didn't move it. John threw all his weight into it, back, shoulders, hip, even the air tank. But the door wouldn't move.

"Hey!" John pounded at the door. "H—" He couldn't finish. He sagged against the door. Only his desperate hold on the doorknob kept him up. 

John forced his eyes open. He squinted through tears and looked around the room he was trapped in. 

The thin slits of light nearly blinded him.

John had to push away from the door to give himself enough power to lurch towards the boarded up window. Slivers of light, almost golden bright, cut through the black. John tripped over his own feet, got up again, then fell when his boot crunched over the mask that had been torn off him. 

No. He needed to keep moving.

John couldn't get back on his feet again. So he belly crawled. The taste of smoke seemed to get thicker in his throat, closing his airway. His eyes burned. He could hear his tank, still strapped over his shoulders, hissing away precious air. John wheezed. He feebly caught the flailing cut end of the hose and pointed the thin geyser of air towards his face.

The air revived him briefly. John clamped his mouth shut, shakily knotted the cut hose closed and held his breath. He wanted to pull the tank off, breathe in the escaping oxygen but he knew he only had enough in him for one last shot. His only shot.

When John bumped into the wall, the boarded up window above him, he wanted to cry out in relief. Instead, he clawed the boards above him until he shakily got back to his feet. The planks rattled but they didn't move beyond that. They were nailed shut.

The room felt saturated with fumes now. John's lungs burned as he struggled to slip the tank off his shoulders. The tank dropped to the floor.

John couldn't pick it up.

_Come on. Come on!_

The air he held in exploded out in a _whoosh_ when he lifted up the tank with rubbery arms. Gasping loudly in his own ears, John staggered under the weight of the tank, used its momentum to drop him forward.

The tank barreled through the planks, through the glass.

John held on tight as he could to the tank so it wouldn't hurtle down on to the guys below. Through the gaping hole he made, he could see the tan turnout coats amassed below. Were they looking up? They must be. 

_Please. Let someone see that._

"Hey!" John croaked through the hole. He weakly stuck an arm out. The air coming in reeked of smoke from the fire below. "H-hey! Up...up...h-here..."

The smoke seemed to gather around the edges of his vision, darkening what was already a small patch of light. John clung to the edge of the hole he had made. He tried to shout again but nothing would come out. His chest heaved as he pressed closer to the window. The board he clung to groaned under the strain.

The split board broke free from the wall and John dropped to the floor. 

 

 

The first thing Cap did when Roy came out of the building was throw him against the engine.

Three victims were clustered around Roy by the time he made it downstairs. Their panic attached them to his arms despite his reassurances they were okay. Their relief, once they were outside, scattered them like his boy Chris' marbles in all directions.

Before Roy could warn them to go to the squads to be looked over, Cap's sharp "Watch out!" interrupted him. 

Roy felt arms around his middle. His feet briefly left the ground and then Roy slammed into 8's engine. Air rushed out of him but it wasn't loud enough to drown out the clear, almost ear-piercing sound of glass raining down from above.

Glass and wood shattered on impact; tiny explosions splintering just a few feet away. 

"You all right?" Cap demanded. Behind him, there were similar exclamations as firemen got back to their feet.

Roy nodded numbly. He stared at the glass then slowly tilted his head up.

"Fifth floor," Cap answered his unspoken question. He drew his HT to his mouth. "HT 51, Engine 51. We have a possible victim trapped on the fifth floor on the north side."

_"Engine 51. This is Kelly and Lopez. We're on fourth, south side. We need another line here. Gage went up ahead to fifth."_

Roy tensed. At Cap's nod, he adjusted his helmet, tugged his mask securely over his face and dove back into the building.

People were still evacuating the building, coughing, eyes shut, hands reaching out frantically in an effort to navigate through the smoke. 

"Easy! Keep moving!" Roy called out when one man barreled into him as he tore down the stairs. The man almost pitched Roy over the railing in his haste. "Careful! Keep moving, sir!" Roy pushed him towards the stairs behind him, prodded another. He could hear firemen from 8 coaxing residents in their direction. He could hear distant sirens outside. More help was coming. Roy could keep going.

The fire on third had spread up to the fourth floor. By the time Roy reached the fourth floor, he could make out Chet and Marco's damp backs, their gear soaked as spray bounced off blackening walls. Steam from fast evaporating water filled the level, mixing with black smoke. Everything felt hot and muggy on what little skin was left exposed. Roy shrugged deeper into his turnout coat and looked up at the staircase that rose into the higher floors.

"I'm going up to find Johnny!" Roy hollered over the roar of the fire and hoses. "18 is right behind me with another line. You got this?"

Chet, two hands curled around the head of his hose, nodded jerkily. Marco, straddling the hose behind him, spared a hand to give Roy a thumbs up before he went back to wrestling the hose before that much PSI could cause the line to whip out like an angry snake.

Roy continued on up the steps just as 18's men thundered up to the fourth floor to join Chet and Marco's line in battle.

The fifth floor, while untouched by fire, bore the scars of the random explosions the building had experienced. Smoke from below streaked the walls and obscured flickering light from the random bulbs that somehow survived. Construction cones, most likely from the renovations the building seemed to be perpetually undergoing, lolled on their sides. One looked crushed by a stampede. 

Parts of the ceiling had also caved in, blocking the center of the hallway with jagged torn wood braided together into a bramble of debris.

"Johnny!" Roy shouted to what doors he could reach unobstructed. He cocked his head. Nothing. He leaned into the staircase. He took a deep gulp of air from his mask, before yanking it down from his face.

"Johnny, you up there?" Roy hollered up as loud as he could. He had to quickly put the mask back on. The air on the floor was a sour mix of fumes, smoke and steam that made him gag. 

No one called down from sixth. 

Roy glared at his surroundings. He clambered over debris, one hand on the wall to keep track of where he was going; the hallway was rapidly losing its light. He silently calculated where the north side and that window would be. He wiggled under broken rafters, pulled down torn four-by-fours and found the room was blocked.

He also found, by the blocked door, Johnny's handie talkie.

"Johnny?" Roy pounded a fist on the wall. "Johnny, you in there?" He yanked off his helmet, pressed an ear to the wall. But he couldn't hear anything. The fire below bellowed furiously, firemen shouted in muffled yells behind their masks, he couldn—Wait!

There was someone coughing behind the wall.

"Johnny?" With two fists, Roy hit the wall again. "I'm going to get you out!"

There was a weak _thump_ inside; something hollow dropping to the floor. Then after a beat, the _thump_ was heard again. 

Roy eyed the destruction piled up against the door. There was no way he could fit in there to get to the door. He fumbled out his handie talkie. 

"Engine 51, HT 51. This is DeSoto on fifth. I need the K-12."

_"10-4, 51. Stoker's on his way."_

It should have made him feel better. Cap's words, while distorted on the radio, were still calm and even and reassuring. The wall could easily be cut down with the saw. The smoke around him seemed thinner; the fire was being handled. Help was coming. 

But Johnny stopped coughing on the other side.

Roy flattened himself against the wall. 

"Johnny?" His fist ached as he hammered the wall. "Johnny, you okay?"

Nothing. Not even that strange _thump_ like before.

Chest pounding, Roy eyed the mess blocking the door. He ducked under one rafter that shot out of the middle of the pile like a lever. He tucked his right shoulder under it like a fulcrum. Hunched, knees bent, Roy could feel the hard edges digging into his deltoids. He gritted his teeth, braced his hands on the wood and straightened up his knees.

The debris, like a great beast, groaned. But that was all.

Roy, his breathing ragged, heaved. His knees trembled as they tried to push up, lock, gain some elevation. Anything.

A burst of heat cracked deep in his shoulder and raced down his back. Roy grunted, ignored the sudden urge to vomit and tried again.

Above him, on top of the pile, something shifted and fell off on the other side.

Encouraged, Roy spread his feet apart, braced his hands a shoulder width apart and _heaved_.

His right shoulder spasmed and his arm jerked. The rafter on his shoulder stirred, slipped off, disturbing the top layer of jagged wood.

A hand grabbed him by the arm and jerked him back just before a cascade of wood and metal tumbled down to where he'd been standing.

"What the hell are you doing?" Mike was practically shouting to be heard through both masks. 

Roy gripped his right shoulder; it felt like it was three times its normal size now. Shakily—his knees wouldn't stop trembling—he nodded towards the handie talkie barely visible now by the still-blocked door.

Even through the haze, through the masks, Roy saw Mike's eyes widen in comprehension.

"Stand back," he told Roy curtly. He jerked the chain back and the circular saw roared to life. It screeched as its teeth dug into the wall in front of them, a rough dark line splitting the surface.

_Hang in there, Johnny_ , Roy thought as he stared at the line, willing it to lengthen faster. 

_We're coming._

 

 

_Roy's coming._

Fuzzily, John heard it in his head. First it was low and quiet, like how Roy gets when he tries to reassure the patient that he was here to help. Then it got loud and almost kind of bossy, drowning out the coughing tearing out of his throat.

John vaguely remembered clutching his air tank, grateful he hadn't let go of it. It would have killed someone below otherwise. No way.

The hissing started up as soon as John unraveled the knot. The trickle of air leaking out of the cut hose reminded him of the other reason why he was grateful he held onto the tank. The sensation of the thread of air blowing against his flushed face was a relief. It wasn't enough air, but it was something. John clutched the tank as he stayed low to the ground, below the window. 

It was going to be enough, just enough for Roy to get here. Because he would. 

_"...in there?"_

John blinked blearily towards where he thought the door was. He coughed as he tried to call out. He gagged. His chest was growing tighter. He could feel the drag of sleep pulling him closer to the edge of a hole he would never be able to climb out of if he succumbed. He hugged the tank tighter, head low as a coughing jag seized his entire body.

_"...going....you out..."_

The knocking on the wall sounded like death calling. John shuddered. He could hear Roy now, shouting even though John knew he must have his mask on. Pounding and pounding as if Roy could break down the wall between them with his bare hands. 

John raised the tank with both hands. He could only lift it a few inches before letting it drop to the floor. Tears leaked out of his shut eyes as he tried again. It sounded hollow as the canister landed on the floor with a jarring _thump_. It always sounded like that, John told himself even as he feebly pressed the torn hose closer to his face. Of course it sounded empty. Oxygen was nothing more than air, gas and practically weighed—

The hose in his grasp twitched, sputtered then fell limp in his fingers. 

Then again, maybe the tank sounded hollow for a reason. 

John pressed his mouth shut, trying to trap good air in his lungs and wishing he had the foresight to take one last gulp of his tank's air before its supply bled dry. He sagged against the wall, let the tank roll away from him as he fought to keep his eyes open.

He's outside. Roy's just outside. John only needed to wait a bit more. Just a little bit more. 

Beyond the room, John could hear what sounded like the roar of the K-12. He smiled wanly, his eyes drooping as he listened to the whine of the saw ripping through the wall. 

_Almost there..._

John sucked in a breath before he realized he shouldn't have. It burned all the way down his throat, his nose. He doubled over, sliding off the wall and onto the floor. He lay there, curled up, his cheek on the scratchy floor, wheezing around the fire that seemed to have erupted inside him.

Was this what it's like to burn alive, John thought distantly. He'd wondered but never dwelled on it; no firefighter ever would. No one wanted to think too long about the possible one time the beast they fought against finally winning. But John had wondered, out loud even. Roy once told him that when John ate enough smoke, he would stop wondering like the rest of them. John had shot back he wasn't that much younger than them. Roy would get some weird sappy smile, cuff him on the head and say John was young enough. 

That darn Roy...

A cough punched up his throat, lodged a lump of pain under his Adam's apple. John groaned. Tried. Couldn't. The second his throat worked to make a sound, another tearing cough took over. John's fingers curled against the floorboards. Roy hurry, he can't...he can't...

Hands curled around his neck, to push him towards the broken furnace pipe again. John jolted.

"Johnny! Johnny! It's okay!"

John heard Roy's voice but he felt a stranger's hand. He struggled as he was pulled upright). He kicked out a boot. He was rewarded with a grunt.

"Take it easy! You're all right!"

His head spun in the new position and there was a pounding behind his eyes as arms slipped around his middle. A hand grabbed the back of his pants. He felt himself being dragged back. 

John whipped his head back. Maybe if he hit hard enough, he would knock that mask off, break free.

"Calm down! Calm—Roy, you okay?"

"...Yeah..."

Something was pressed over his face. John reared back. He could feel his heart slamming hard against his ribs, beating frantically, shouting to him to break free. His eyes widened but he couldn't see because everything burst into a screen of blinding white...

A hand tightened on his neck, the thing was pressed harder over his face and something cool and dry washed over his mouth and nose. Air! John gasped and felt it rushing in. The fire in his chest and gut quelled. The haze over his eyes cleared a bit.

Roy's green eyes were bright and glued to him. His face, empty of his mask, stared at him silently but John heard him all the same. He nodded. He felt his limbs relaxing and finally Mike's arm around his middle registered. 

"Roy?" Mike sounded terse.

Roy nodded. He straightened to his feet and for some reason seemed content to let Mike do the heavy lifting. Mike hefted John up to his feet with another grunt. Roy followed closely, taking back the mask to take a turn at the air before insistently putting it back over John's face.

Things blurred when they started to move.

John was aware of moments when the air felt good on his face then muggy and hot. He was aware of Mike's solid presence, shoring him up, keeping him upright (sort of) as they took the stairs.

Behind them, John thought he heard an explosion but his ears were doing a buzzing noise he vaguely knew was bad. He felt Roy's hand on his right shoulder, to remind John he was there and maybe to remind Roy John was, too.

They got to—John wasn't sure what floor and he couldn't remember what floor he was on before—where the heat was suffocating again. So much so, John's knees folded and suddenly he was blurrily making out Chet and Marco clustering close and now he was floating, not walking, as he was carried down the rest of the way. The mask was pressed back to his face and never left.

When sunlight hit his face, John flinched, his eyes screwing shut as his eyes burned after being in the dark for what felt like forever. Air, still muggy and hot but fresh, fresh air, flowed around him, against his skin, sinking deep into his bones.

His stomach lurched. His chest seemed to swell. Bile burned in the back of his mouth. 

John gagged.

"Put him down. Get that off!" Roy was shouting. Why was he shouting?

The mask was ripped off. John automatically sucked in a breath and his body remembered the black gunk collected in his lungs.

Hands rolled him onto his side as John retched. His body spasmed as he vomited, limbs twitching with the violence of his body trying to exorcise the toxic fumes.

It felt like it went on forever. Tears and sweat ran down his face. His throat felt scoured and boiling with agony. John retched over and over, his stomach cramping each time.

Through it all, he heard Roy's raspy voice close to his ear, coaxing him to relax, calm down partner, you're okay, slow breaths, easy now. 

His body slowly unclenched and the relief from it all made a tiny whimper escape before John could stop himself. 

"I could do it..." Roy was arguing with someone. His hand was on the back of John's neck which made John realize that somewhere from the building to here, someone had helped John take off his turnout coat and laid him on the tarp. When did that happen? 

"I know you can." It sounded like Squad 42's Pratt. Funny, John didn't remember LA calling them to this run. 

"Roy, let us handle it, okay?"

The hand over John's neck tightened. John wordlessly agreed and rolled on his side towards Roy. To his dismay, someone rolled him back, wiped his mouth clean then promptly fitted a mask over his mouth. John screwed up his face.

"We'll take good care of your partner." Pratt usually sounded like he was shouting through a mouthful of marbles. Right now though, he was quiet, like he was talking down a cornered animal. "He's going to be all right. Let Tom take a look at your shoulder, okay?"

What about Roy's shoulder? John tilted his head up but the sun overhead blinded him. He couldn't help it, he flinched.

"It's fine." Roy's voice was fading though. 

"You and I both know it's not," Pratt said firmly. John could imagine that fuzzy blonde caterpillar of a mustache of his wiggling into a frown.

John feebly swatted a hand in Roy's direction. He ended up knocking the mask off his face instead. Roy bowed over him.

"Keep this on," Roy chided as he slid the mask over his face with his left hand. Ah ha. There _was_ something wrong with Roy's shoulder. 

John weakly poked Roy in the chest. Roy captured the hand to take his pulse. Cheater.

"All right." Luckily, they've been partners long enough that Roy could figure out what was bugging him. "I'll get checked out."

"Rampart, this is Squad 42, how do you read?"

Apparently Pratt and his partner were waiting for that.

Roy smiled ruefully down at John. He patted John on the shoulder, murmured he'd be right back. His fingers slipped off John's wrist...

And John started as memory slammed into him so hard, he couldn't breathe.

"...other fireman has a dislocat—Rampart, hold! What happened?"

Hands were on John, trying to get him to lie back, trying to drag him to the pipe and to his death. John arched his back, wheezing, gasping. He ripped the mask off. Roy, where was Roy?

"Easy, Gage! Slow your breathing down!"

"Rampart, patient is experiencing difficulty breathing. Pulse is..."

"What's going on? Johnny, what's wrong?"

John grabbed Roy's voice like a lifeline and let it lead him to his partner. He found Roy's turnout coat, his belt and he grabbed on, knuckles white tight.

"Johnny, shhh, calm down. Let them put the mask back on. You need the O2. Calm down. Easy..."

No. John shook off the mask he could feel hovering close. No. He needed to tell Roy. He opened his mouth but only a rasp came out. His eyes burned. Damn it. John coughed, tried again.

Roy settled a warm hand over his throat, massaging, pressing carefully, fingers circling and soothing the painful cords. John's voice couldn't form anything but a whine. He hissed as he inhaled, tried again, failed.

"Shhh...let them give you the O2. Whatever it is, you can tell me lat—Alright, alright! Calm down!"

"Roy."

"Johnny wants to tell me something. I think we better let him or he'll fight us all the way to Rampart."

There was a sigh before hands slipped behind his back, eased him up until he sat sagging against what turned out to be Chet. Huh?

"Geez, Gage," Chet groused. His words rumbled under John. "You really can't stop yapping, can ya?"

John could feel the buckles on Roy's coat. He curled his fingers until the metal latches dug painfully into his palm.

"Roy," he croaked. Thank God, his voice was back.

Roy leaned close, his hand still smoothing circles on Johnny's throat. He canted his head and offered an ear.

"Roy..." John wheezed. He tugged the coat. "I think someone..." He swallowed. Ouch. That _hurt_. 

"Someone tried to...tried to kill you."

John caught Roy's profile paling under the smudges of soot, eyes wide. But John couldn't care anymore even if he wanted to. Relief unwound the tension all along his spine, his gut and his bones seemed to have vanished. He told Roy. The guys would watch out for Roy now.

Head dropping, John folded forward into the darkness.


	11. Chapter 11

_"...cross match..."_

_"Need another line..._

_"...BP is 130 over..."_

Things were fuzzy. Yea, that was the word for it. He could hear bits and pieces of conversation over his head, all soft and chopped up, floating above him. If his limbs weren't tied down, he could reach up and grab them, take a closer look and see what they were saying. Because he had a vague notion that the mushed up pieces of conversation hanging above him were about him.

Wait...

Why was he tied down?

_"Easy, Gage...Call Doctor...help over here..."_

He tried to raise a hand but it was heavy. No, not tied down. Weighed down. Pressing down. Held down, pinned, unable to move...

There was a flutter in his belly at the thought of someone or something confining him, preventing him from moving, maybe even dragging him over to certain death...

The vague sensation in his gut squirmed larger and larger now, until it felt like it was trying to force its way up from under his ribs. He could feel his heart hammering, banging to get out of his chest. Get out. He needed to get out...

_"Doctor?"_

_"Get me a..."_

He couldn't move and there was a frantic sound high and pinched that swirled around him. The floating snippets of words above him now swirled like a sudden summer storm. Voices, words, sensations crashed over him like a flash flood.

He couldn't breathe.

_"He's cyanotic..."_

_"I'm going to have to..."_

A hand slipped under his neck, tipping his head back. He jerked, knees stuttering but too weak to kick his attacker off as he was pulled, dragged back to the wall.

_"Calm down! Relax! We—"_

_"Doctor, are you all right?"_

_"I need another...into his IV. Run another..."_

His throat tightened as he tried to suck in air. His stomach hurt, rigid and hot as its muscles desperately tried to do what his lungs seemed to have forgot. 

Get away. He needed to get away.

_"BP's 140 over..."_

He could feel hands on his arms now, hot breath over his face; the fire loomed even as the hands restrained. He couldn't pull away. His body tensed but he couldn't get up, twist away. 

_"Doctor!"_

His head pounded as his lungs burned with the effort to breathe, _breathe_. But he needed to break free before he could breathe. Fire wasn't the only thing robbing him of oxygen. A man was; a man who thought he was killing Ro— _Roy_! He wanted to kill Roy!

_"Damn it."_

_"Pulse is 110..."_

_"Get him in here!"_

His arms finally listening, weakly whipped out. He lashed out. He arched up, his mouth opened to an angry, soundless scream.

A hand settled on the base of his throat.

_"Easy there, partner. Morton's starting to take it personally, you know?"_

He gulped, his paralyzed throat working, or tried to. Even his Adam's apple hurt when it bobbed, like he'd swallowed something he shouldn't have. He gulped, his mouth gaping open, trying to speak. 

The hand on his throat curled briefly, not hurting, not restraining, but possessively. Fingers pressed gently, soothing around the bunched cords on his neck, coaxing them to relax.

_"You're okay now, partner. Sh..."_

Something hot and wet broke free from his eyes and trailed down his face. The fingers on his throat were gone, suddenly on top of his head, giving his scalp a scratch that felt chiding.

"You can breathe. You just gotta relax...Calm down...you're all right now."

The circles massaged into his skull were small, yet he felt the weight and strength of them gathering all his scattered thoughts, clumped it all together, melding them into something he could at last understand.

Words formed in his head. Words formed in a parched mouth. His lips stung when they cracked as he tested his voice.

"...'oy?"

The fingers paused. Before leaving, they pressed into his hair one more time. 

John furrowed his brow. "Roy? Where...?"

There was a half-snort, half-sigh to his right.

"If you would open your eyes, Gage, you'd see."

Oh, no. _Morton_. 

John groaned, but it came out as a cough instead.

"Hey now." Suddenly Morton no longer sounded annoyed. He dropped a hand on John's shoulder. "If you lay off the hysterics, I can fix that cough, okay?"

Another cough wanted to come out, but John's mouth snapped shut before it could escape. Despite how much his eyes felt like they were swollen shut, despite how the light burned his eyes, John opened them, zeroing in on Morton to give him a bloodshot glare.

"He's not hysterical," Roy objected for him.

"'no hee'steri'al," John croaked.

Morton's eyebrow told John he didn't buy one lick of it, but he mercifully said nothing. He grumbled to himself as he placed the bell of his stethoscope on John's upper chest.

Yikes!

"'old!" John hacked out. He batted the offending piece away. 

"Sorry," quipped Morton. "Haven't had a chance to thaw it when I got it from the North Pole." He rubbed it briskly between his palms before trying again though. He nodded to himself as he listened, oblivious to John glowering at the top of his head. 

"How's it look?" Roy asked. He settled a hand on John's shoulder. It was the only reason why John didn't sit up and scram. For crying out loud. Morton? Again?

"Lungs sound good," Morton told Roy as he busied himself pumping the balloon for the bp cuff. He squinted at the gauge. "BP's finally lowering, but still higher than I would like." He touched his chin, still ignoring John (damn it) as he considered John on the gurney.

"If his vitals check out okay every two hours, I could release him day after tomorrow."

"He'll miss a shift," Roy calculated.

"Two, actually. I don't like how red his throat looks. I'll probably get an ENT in here tonight to look at him, again tomorrow. Depending on what he decides, maybe even three—Whoa! Gage! It's only a maybe!"

Roy's hand moved away from his shoulder and dropped to the knee John managed to bend up in an effort to get up. John settled because, if he were to be honest to himself, he didn't have the strength to get up anyway. His arms and legs felt like spaghetti.

But _three_ shifts?

John's reaction must have been visible on his face because Morton paused and offered a faint smile.

"I'm pretty sure it'll just be two." Morton tugged a breathing mask over his face. "Looks like you got out of there before any permanent damage was done. You're lucky, Johnny."

"Yea," Roy muttered, almost to himself, "Lucky."

John said nothing when Roy's hand tightened briefly over his knee. 

 

 

_"...sure you don't want me there?"_

Roy was almost sorry he had called Joanne. Almost _._ He'd wanted to hear her voice since he was hustled into the ambulance, his arm still feeling like it belonged to someone else. The throbbing pain was a mixed blessing: pain meant hopefully no nerves were damaged but pain also meant, well, pain.

_"I could be over there in a few hours if I start driving now."_

The panic in John's eyes when he told Roy he thought someone had just tried to kill Roy stayed in Roy's mind like a film was drawn up over his vision. It drove him to drop a nickel into the payphone to call his wife. The reminder was now making him vehemently shake his head.

"No. No point. Visiting hours will be over by the time you get here. Look, the doctors say my shoulder's fine. I'll miss a shift. Johnny's staying here for observation. He'll probably miss two shifts. But they think they can release him day after tomorrow to recover at home."

 _"Oh, Roy,"_ Joanne exclaimed. _"Not back at his apartment. Not so soon after the fire! All that smoke and right after this one? No, set up the guest room. He's staying with us."_

Roy smiled into the phone. He hoped Joanne could hear it when he murmured, "Okay. Thanks, honey."

 _"Besides,"_ Joanne sweetly went on, _"he could try out some of the new recipes Abby just taught me. l bet it'll beat Mike Stoker's spaghetti."_

Roy's smile faded. Darn, his wife was still on about that. He'd hoped after a few weeks, especially after agreeing Mike's was better, she would move on. 

"Uh..."

 _"Shame about the overtime though,"_ Joanne sighed.

Roy blinked. "Huh? Oh, right. Yeah. The overtime." He wanted to rub the back of his neck but the sling left him without an extra hand. "Yeah, Johnny's real sore about that."

 _"If we adopt him, he could continue wearing the DeSoto coat,"_ Joanne snickered.

Roy snorted. "Johnny wouldn't like that, hon."

_"Why not? What's wrong with the name DeSoto? I like it. The children like it just fine."_

Flowers. When it was safe for them to come back, he was going to buy Joanne the biggest bouquet of roses he could afford. 

Roy knew he must be grinning goofy like into the phone judging from the smiles the nurses favored him with as they walked by. He ducked his head.

"Listen, I don't have any more change. I gotta go. Just stay there with the kids. I don't want to ruin your vacation."

 _"There's a few casseroles in the freezer you could reheat. And some more of the potato soup, too."_ Joanne paused. _"We'll see you soon. The kids are out with my mother on the beach. Otherwise..."_

"It's all right. Give them a kiss for me and an extra hug."

_"Always. You two take care. Kiss from me. To Johnny, too."_

"Uh..."

Joanne snickered. _"Don't worry. I'll give him that one myself, honey."_

Roy exchanged a few more words with his wife. Their teasing back and forth, even her reminder about repainting the lawn furniture, left him smiling when they finally said their goodbyes. He was still smiling until he reached the room he was sharing with Johnny, the police guard sitting in a chair outside.

 

 

_He couldn't breathe._

_A hand gripped the back of his neck, unmoving when he struggled, unyielding when he tried to draw back an elbow._

_He struck nothing._

_There was nothing behind him. Just smoke. Just the crackle of fire._

_And the hand._

With a start, John woke, coughing even before his eyes opened. Instead, he closed them tighter as he rolled onto his side.

John felt the warmth of an approaching hand coming at him and John threw out a fist. The grunt he heard was familiar enough that everything halted.

"...Roy?"

"If I say yes, will you stop trying to punch me?"

Roy's wry question settled over John's skin. He sagged and that's when he realized he was on the floor. And it was _cold_.

John blearily blinked up at Roy. "I'm on the floor," he croaked. Or at least that's what he was trying to say; his words jumbled together.

"I know," Roy said, easily understanding John. "I've been trying to get you up off it for the past five minutes. I was about to page a nurse." He smirked. "Or Morton."

Scowling now, John squinted up at his partner, oh great pal of his. "Funny, Roy."

"Thought you said I wasn't a comedian." Roy sobered. He offered a hand. "Think you can get up now?"

John glanced down at himself and the thin hospital gown he really couldn't stand. "It's cold."

"Uh huh."

"We're in Rampart."

"Doctors will be glad to hear there's no brain damage."

John sighed. He looked up mournfully at Roy. "But I just got out of Rampart."

Roy's mouth tilted downward. "Yea. Sorry about that."

Huh?

"Wasn't your fault," John said automatically. His brow furrowed as he fought to remember. The fire. The smoke. The...the hand.

"Whoever that was, saw your coat, thought it was me," Roy whispered. His hand dropped. He exhaled low and weary as he eased down to the floor next to John. "You wouldn't be in here if it weren't for me." At John's scoff, Roy darkened. "This is serious, Johnny. You wouldn't be in here if it weren't for me!"

John rolled his eyes. "I heard you the first time, Roy. I'm not disagreeing with ya. You're right."

Roy looked taken aback. His head lowered and his eyes slid away.

"If it weren't for you, I'd probably be dead." John elbowed Roy gently. "Hospital's preferable."

Roy crooked a faint grin. "Even with Morton?"

"Now, I wouldn't go _that_ far."

Roy chuckled with John. He shoved one of John's knees. 

John's knee nudged him back. "Now go home. Let me sleep."

"I can't leave."

"Now Roy, don't be silly. I'm fine. I have a line of oxygen, I feel fine, I'll probably be out tomorrow—"

"Day after."

John glared at Roy. " _Tomorrow_."

Roy scoffed.

"Listen. It's fine. Go on, get going." John waved his hands, shooing Roy. 

Roy, however, didn't get up. 

" _Roy,_ for crying out loud..."

Roy smiled crookedly. "I can't. I haven't been discharged yet." He shrugged his left shoulder and that's when John realized he hadn't seen Roy move his right arm at all.

"What happened?"

At least that was what John wanted to say, but what came out instead was a series of coughs that had him doubled over on the floor. Dimly, he felt Roy's hand on his back, rubbing as if coaxing every drop of coughing itch to come out so his lungs could have room for air. It hurt to breathe, why couldn't he stop coughing...

Cool air tickled his mouth and John opened his mouth immediately. He gulped in air from the mask Roy pressed to his face, long draws of air.

The fog cleared and he blinked through watery eyes at Roy.

Roy looked drawn, white lipped as he asked, "Okay?"

John nodded. He opened his eyes as wide as he could when he felt them droop.

"Okay, let's get you back up on the bed then. Here we go. Just lean on me."

Knees shook as they straightened. John made a face when he realized he couldn't do anything more than hunch over, leaning lopsided against Roy. His bed was close then far away. So when he fell almost face first into his bed, it came as a shock.

"You gotta lay off the tacos, Johnny," Roy wheezed. Nevertheless, John felt him helping him roll onto his back, swing his legs back on the bed.

John lay there, gathering his strength together because he wanted to know what had happened, why was Roy in a sling? Did they catch the guy? Was someone still watching Roy?

A door quietly creaked open a crack.

"Do you need me to get a nurse, sir?"

"No, I think we're fine now. The doctors will be making their rounds here soon. Thank you, officer."

"All right. I'll be right outside."

A hand massaged a circle over his right shoulder. John realized he had tensed since the door opened.

"Just the police officer they put outside the room," Roy murmured. "We're okay. Take deep breaths."

John allowed himself two gulps before he pulled the mask down. "How," he managed before the mask was pushed back over his mouth, effectively muffling the exasperated, "Roy!"

"Happened in the fire," Roy explained, still digging the heel of his hand carefully on John's shoulder; the one the tank straps left a bruise on somehow. He hadn't realized it ached until Roy began working on it.

"I'm fine. Simple dislocation, but I'll be missing a shift. I'm getting discharged tomorrow." At John's pleading look, Roy chuckled. "Nope, sorry, partner. Just me."

John grumbled behind the mask. _We'll see about that._ He huffed and let the air loosen the vise around his chest. He arched an eyebrow at Roy.

Roy shook his head. "No, they didn't catch him." He hesitated. "Do you remember anything about him?" He furrowed his brow when John pointed to his face.

"What? He had a mask on?" Roy dropped a hand on top of John's head to still the nodding. "Would explain how he was able to walk around in there. Cap said fire marshals thought it was arson. Barton," Roy made a face at the name, "was here before. Wanted to ask you what you saw. Dix threw him out." 

Dix? John perked up. He tried to pull his mask off until he realized Roy had placed his fingers on the side of the mask to abort John's attempts. What a rotten thing to do.

"She didn't appreciate being called a clueless lady nor did she like being pushed aside. She threw him out before Doctor Early could punch him."

Early? Shoot. John missed all the action. 

Roy smirked. "I'm sure Chet will tell you all about it tomorrow when he visits you... in the hospital." John sagged deeper into the bed.

"Hey, thought you said the hospital was preferable," Roy teased as he sat on the edge of the bed. His smile softened to something John often associated with "What am I going to do with you?" Roy never seemed annoyed though; just amused. 

"Look, Cap said to tell you not to worry about your shifts or your gear."

"Huh?"

Roy patted his knee. "Don't worry about your gear. All right?"

John bit his lower lip. Easy for Roy to say. He couldn't wrap his head around how much everything was going to cost. He rubbed a hand to the back of his neck, but the sensation made his insides squirm with a memory he really didn't want to think about. He hastily dropped his hand.

"Johnny."

John raised his head to Roy. 

Serious eyes fixed on John. "Don't worry about it. Trust me. Okay?" 

The hard lump in his gut loosened. If Roy said not to worry about it…

Without looking away, John nodded.


	12. Chapter 12

He couldn't sleep.

Roy laid there on the bed, his right shoulder a numb weight, his head reeling, almost lightheaded.

He almost got Johnny killed.

The mantra haunted him all night, stayed with him when morning mulishly came through the blinds. He waited until Johnny finished his breakfast of scrambled eggs the color of his fridge and oatmeal the color of their hoses (hospital food made him miss Joanne's cooking more).

Johnny gulped down his downcast expression along with his gummy oatmeal when Roy reluctantly told him he was heading out. Roy could tell by the way Johnny poked at the last chocolate chip cookie Dix snuck in (his favorite), the loss of his shifts and its pay was still bugging him. Hopefully, that would resolve itself soon with Chet's idea.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow alright?" Roy patted his partner on the knee. The reminder that even Roy was missing a shift didn't seem to cheer him up though. 

"Sure," John muttered dejectedly. His smile was strained and lopsided when he looked up from his tray. "Want my cookie?"

"Nah." Roy patted his stomach. "Dix makes good cookies. I ate all of mine. Any more and Cap will have me on extra hose duty."

The smile twitched. Johnny chuckled wanly. "Yeah."

Roy sat down at the edge of the bed. "Listen, don't worry about it, all right? About your gear, I mean. It'll work out." He rubbed a knuckle on the blanket Johnny always kicked off in his sleep. "And look, I don't mind if you keep wearing my gear, okay? I'll even tell the guys to lay off on the 'Junior' stuff."

"Aw..." Johnny's ears pinked. "That's not what's bugging me, Roy."

Roy arched an eyebrow towards him. "Could have fooled me."

Johnny ducked his head. "You were safe in the station, you know, with all the guys. But you're going home alone, Roy. Joanne's not there—I mean, it's good she's not there but—Shoot. You sure you can't stay in the station for a while?"

Ah. Roy found himself grinning goofy again, his gut warm and full and not just from Dix's treats.

Johnny scowled. "I wasn't trying to be funny, Roy."

Schooling his face to a more appropriately serious one, Roy nodded. "I know. Don't worry about it. Vince is driving me to the station to get my stuff then escorting me home. There's going to be a patrol car outside my house until this is all over."

"Yeah?" Johnny perked up.

Roy chuckled. "Yeah. So uh...you still don't want that cookie?"

"Well, ah, you did already have three, Roy and you don't wanna get too pudgy before your mother-in-law comes visiting again..."

Roy's smile fell. He narrowed his eyes at Johnny, who crammed the last cookie in his mouth and chewed noisily. He rolled his eyes at Johnny's cheeky grin.

"I'll see ya tomorrow...Junior."

Roy smirked at the muffled but audibly indignant "Roy!" he shut the door to. He waved, smiling wanly at Vince, who stood up immediately as soon as Roy came out of the room.

"Detectives Barton and Crockett are waiting to talk to you back at the station."

Roy's smile and whatever good humor he carried evaporated pretty much after that.

 

 

By the time Roy arrived in the barn with the ever vigilant Vince, the next shift was already busy polishing the engine. The squad was glaringly absent, already out on a run to a fallen child according to their engineer.

It was strange to be arriving when all the guys were off. Roy knew he would see them next shi—no, the shift after as Early said—but seeing other firefighters walking casually out of the dorms and kitchen did a funny thing to his gut. It was like walking into what you first thought was home, only it wasn't; only looked like it. 

"DeSoto, they're waiting in the Captain's office," Hookraider said, giving Roy a curt nod.

"Thanks, Cap," Roy called out but Hookraider went back to scrutinizing poor Stewart's wax job. 

"Now I think you can do better than that..."

Detective Barton jumped on him before Roy was completely in the door.

"Why didn't you tell us Campbell made an attempt yesterday?" Barton demanded before Crockett could stop him.

Roy was taken aback. "What? No, he—"

"I had to hear about it from the _Sheriff's_ department this morning?" Barton looked like he was two rants away from a cardiac. He was red from the neck up. "Did he say anything? Did you see what he took to get away? A car? What's the license plate number?"

"Hang on..." Crockett tried to play peacemaker but Barton dismissed Crockett with a grunt.

"Now hold up." Roy was sorely tempted to bust some teeth. "No one tried to kill me yesterday. He tried to kill my partner!"

"Who?" Barton looked almost cross-eyed.

"Is Gage all right?" Crockett frowned.

"Why the hell was Campbell trying to kill your partner? Did Louie talk to him?"

Roy had to take a step back because there was a boiling sensation in his gut. He doubted he would get police protection behind bars when he got arrested for breaking Barton's nose.

"No. Look, he must have mistaken my partner for me. Johnny had my coat on and—"

Barton eased back, He even smiled, which didn't improve his looks.

"I get it. Quick thinking getting yourself a decoy, DeSot—Hey! What's the matter with you?"

Roy didn't realize his hands were on Barton's lapels until Crockett's arms were thrust in between him and Barton, Vince shouting in Roy's ear to let go, Hookraider bellowing "What the hell is this?" by the door. 

"Back off, DeSot—"

"Roy, let go—"

"DeSoto, calm down! Let go of—"

"DeSoto, get off! I could arrest you for—"

There was a brief scuffle, more shouting, a lot of shouting actually, but after a few more tugs and shoves, Roy found himself glowering at Barton from across the room, Hookraider standing in the center of it all like it was a demilitarized zone, his arms out to ward both sides back.

"What the hell, DeSoto!" Barton screamed. Spittle sprayed out in his wake. "What's your beef?"

"My partner is not a decoy!" Roy snapped back. His right shoulder pounded. Vince wasn't restraining him anymore, but Roy felt a warning grip on his left elbow. 

Barton's face twisted into a sneer. "Oh yeah? You didn't seem to have any problem with him wearing your name on the paper!" He flung a wad of crumpled newspaper at Roy.

Roy stared at the article in his hands, Johnny all smudged and dazed from the fire a few nights ago. "Wha—I didn't." He waved the article at Barton. "This was from the fire at his place a few nights ago! He was wearing my coat and the reporter thought his name was DeSoto. He thought..." Roy's eyes widened.

"Oh God..."

"Roy?" Vince let go to peer at him. "What is it?"

"DeSoto?" Hookraider frowned.

"DeSoto," Roy murmured. "The reporter mistakenly called him DeSoto." The near miss at the road, the ramp, the fire—No...

"He didn't make a mistake thinking Johnny was me. He thought Johnny _was_ me. He must have seen the newspaper article. He..." Roy elbowed past Barton, everyone in his haste to get to the telephone. Absently, he knew he forgot to ask Hookraider, maybe use the payphone, but he didn't _care_.

The call was picked up after the longest three rings Roy ever felt.

_"Rampart General."_

"Dix, it's Roy DeSoto. Can you connect me to Johnny's room?" Roy caught sight of Crockett darting out of the office. __

_"Oh, I'm sorry, Roy. Actually, you just missed him."_

Roy thought he would squeeze the handset hard enough to snap it into two. " _What_? What do you mean?"

_"Well, Doctor Morton felt sorry for John and discharged him this morning."_

"He left?" 

_"Uh huh. Chet gave him a ride."_

"Dix, did they say—Where were they going?"

_"Johnny mentioned something about going back home to grab some stuff before heading back to your place. Roy, is everything al—"_

"Roy, what—"

"Campbell thought Johnny was the witness, not me! He was never trying to kill me at all! He's going after Johnny! He has been the whole time!"

Roy had shouted the last part over his shoulder as he veered around Hamilton, startled firemen, darted past the squad backing up into the barn.

"We'll get some uniforms over to Rampart," Barton called out after Roy.

"No, he's not there anymore!" Roy ran straight for his car. He fumbled out his keys.

"What? Where the hell is he?" It wasn't clear who shouted it.

The ignition roared the moment Roy jammed his key in.

"DeSoto, what are you doing?"

"Home!" Roy shouted as he turned his car around, the engine nearly drowning him out. "Johnny went home!"

Roy didn't wait for a response. There wasn't _time_. The tires shrieked, echoing the white hot fear wrapped tight around his chest like barbed wire.

Vaguely, Roy remembered someone had to jump out of the way as his car zipped out of the parking lot and straight for Johnny's place.


	13. Chapter 13

"Aw man."

John stared at his living room. His stomach sank as he surveyed the streaks of black soot that was...it was...it was _everywhere_. 

Chet stepped through the open doorway and stopped to stare. He whistled.

"Geez, looks like a zebra lives here."

Even the glass windows were obscured by splotches of black. He could barely tell it was only noon.

"Probably an improvement to the mess before, huh, Gage?"

John couldn't speak. His eyes wandered over to the mustard couch and the armchair Roy had complained tried to eat him the last time he stayed over. He had just finished paying for them. They were gray now; they looked like props from one of those late, late shows.

A warm hand dropped on his shoulder and squeezed before slipping away.

"Aw," John sniffed loudly. He fought back a cough. The place still reeked. "I was lucky. Fire didn't even get up here. Second floor was worse." Poor Mrs. Parker. She still can't find her little brown dog. "They sustained water damage downstairs. Third floor is a mess. Nobody can move back in there yet. This...this...it's just a lot of," John toed the carpet that was once a tan color, now it was as muddy as a rain-swollen river bank. 

"Just a lot of smoke," John finished with a lump in his throat.

Chet clapped him on the back. It startled the cough John had been trying to hold back and it came out in a fit that had John slouched forward, hacking until tears sprang into his eyes. It felt like forever, Chet pounding his back, his chest and throat tight. Each time he tried to straighten up, he was coughing all over again. 

Finally the tightness was back to only an annoying tickle in his throat again. John wiped his face with a sleeve as he stared hard at his couch—how was he going to get it cleaned? He could feel Chet's dirty look on him.

"Thought you said the doctors cleared you."

"I sure hope I still have some clean shirts," John said loudly. "I better go see in the bedroom."

"Johnny..."

"Think I got some old gear, too," John went on, his words as fast as his feet were. "I'll go see." 

Before Chet could say anything more—because then John would never hear the end of it—John ducked into his bedroom and shut the door.

He wished he hadn't.

The smell in the bedroom was worse, so bad, John first tossed stuff around to make sure there wasn't a hot ember lurking about. He tugged the bedsheets off his bed and the acrid stench of scorched wood and oil wafted up. 

The ghostly impression of a hand over his neck squeezed.

John gagged. He slapped a hand over the spot on his neck so hard the sting chased the phantom sensation away for a second.

Nothing's there. He was just imagining things. _Pull yourself together, Gage._

Suddenly weak in the knees, John dropped heavily onto the stripped bed. He clasped a hand on his chest, fingers uselessly grabbing at the frantic heartbeat and the short breaths trying to break free from his ribs.

_No, no. Calm down. Otherwise Chet will see and he'll blab it all over to Roy because he has a big mouth._

One steadying breath. Then another. John found himself no longer feeling like he'd been running uphill with all his gear on. He rested his elbows on his knees. His head drooped low to his chest. He found himself staring at the two foot cord of rope he was trying various knots on.

This wasn't so bad, John told himself. Loads of people come back to nothing but ash. It's just smoke damage. He can fix this. Everything here can be fixed, but damn it, it'll cost money, too. 

John pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. 

After a minute, John raised his heavy head up. He sucked in some air, coughed into his elbow and got to his feet, swaying briefly at the sudden elevation. He jogged in place, chanting 'Come on, come on' until it no longer felt like his face would shatter if he tried to smile. He even felt his face with his fingers when he did. Yup. There it was. 

John grabbed the beat up blue travel case in his closet. He had had it since high school and thought many times about getting a new one. Now, he was glad to see the old thing had survived. Kind of. He gave it an experimental sniff. He made a face. He would air it out in Roy's yard. He gave each shirt in his closet a cautious sniff, tossing one in, making a face as he diagnosed others as total losses and dumped them into another pile. He didn't think about how much bigger the pile on his bed was compared to what was in his suitcase. He crammed in as many pairs of socks as he could because he sure wasn't going to get caught without a pair again and after a brief hesitation, threw in the cord of rope he was practicing his knots on. 

"Doesn't look too bad," announced John as he swung open the bedroom door. "Uniform shirts smell like they were in a humidor but I'll give them a good wash and iron before I use them. Chet, you think...Chet?" 

John canted his head, puzzled. His front door was closed now and Chet was nowhere in sight. He scowled. What a pal. Cindy from 4J must have sauntered by and Chet went out to introduce himself. Shoot, now he remembered why he'd never offered his place for game nights.

Grumbling, John set down his suitcase. He might as well grab the rest of his stuff so he could clean them at Roy's place. Given how friendly Cindy usually was, Chet could be a while.

The couch had a zippered slipcase that John could take off to wash. As he peeled the fabric off its frame, John breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the ash stains hadn't seeped past the covers. Alrighty then! If Roy didn't mind him hogging the washing machine the next two days, maybe John could get the couch clean without costing him more than the price of soap. Shoot, unless...would he need bleach too? John held up the cushion's cover and squinted at it. Was this color a dark or a white? Aw man, was that a _ketchup_ stain on it? How was he supposed to get that off? Why weren't there any tags telling him how to—

_Creak._

John stilled. He furrowed his brow and peered down at his feet. He pressed his right heel down again and the floor groaned, but not in a 'time to evacuate' sort of way. More in a 'time to complain to building management' way. 

Shaking his head, John rolled up the covers as tight as he could and crammed them into his suitcase. He grimaced when he remembered too late about the stains. John pulled out the cases then groaned when he realized now his shirts were all dirty as well.

"For crying out loud," John griped. "Maybe I should just go to a laundromat and—"

_Creak_.

John paused. It sounded like it was behind him this time. He pursed his lips. Everything looked stable when he was in the bedroom. He bit his lower lip, thinking. 

"Cut it out, Chet," John whispered unsteadily. "I know it's you." He waited.

Nothing.

John could feel a flush creeping up his ears. Good thing no one was here to see him jumping at shadows. He shook his head, rolling his eyes at himself. It wasn't even Halloween yet when they showed those creepy late night movies on television. The one with the invisible man had him up the whole night while everyone else was snoring away in the dorm. Roy ribbed him the next morning but could you blame a guy for being nervous about some guy no one sees, only hears, silent footsteps sneaking up on—

Abruptly, John spun on his heels. "Ah ha!" He blinked. 

There was no one there. 

Flushing, John rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. He turned back and stripped down his armchair. He jammed the slipcover into his full case, putting his weight on it to keep it shut when he heard it: the soft hiss of a slow exhale. 

John froze.

"Chet," John whispered, not turning around. "Cut it out. You're not funny."

There was a weird feeling of someone standing behind him. There was a low steady rhythm of breathing behind him, very low, as if someone was trying to control his breathing. John could feel tiny spots of heat on his back, unmoving, steady...

Watching.

This wasn't Chet.

John swallowed. He could feel a bead of sweat trailing down the side of his face as he lifted his eyes, only his eyes, to the front door. The shut front door. 

With unsteady hands, John pretended to check the buckles on his case again. His right foot edged forward an inch. 

Muttering nonsense under his breath, John made a show of hefting the case in his hands, testing the weight as his left knee flexed, shifting weight onto his feet, just three feet, around the armchair, past the coat rack—

Run.

With a sudden shout—it worked for bears—John threw his suitcase behind him at the mass he could sense. He took off. 

Three steps. 

Three lousy steps before footsteps as loud as thunder stomped after John and a large hand—Oh God, he knew that hand—gripped the back of his neck.

John, caught, was jerked back against what felt like a solid wall. A thick arm snaked around to ram under his throat, forcing his chin painfully up.

"You're a hard man to kill, Mister DeSoto," a voice snarled into his right ear. John thought he could feel the edge of teeth grazing by his ear. He could feel how tall the man was, how broad against him and Crockett's blurry photograph sprang up in his head. 

Campbell. 

"I never had to work so hard for my fee before."

"Where's...Where's Chet?" John gasped. He clawed the arm around his throat. The pressure against his Adam's apple was making the living room go dark.

"Don't worry." Campbell cooed like he sincerely wanted to reassure John. "Your buddy's taking a nap in the bathtub. He'll wake up, with just a headache." He chuckled softly into his ear. 

"I don't kill for free."

John stomped on the foot next to his as hard as he could. Campbell only grunted. The arm cinched tighter around John's throat, hard and painful. He found himself flailing, hands grabbing, scrabbling as he fought for air.

A hand slipped up to his hair, almost like a caress before wrapping around to his forehead. John felt callused fingers digging into his temple.

"Hold still," Campbell purred. "I don't usually like the hands on approach but nothing else seems to work with you."

John's neck tensed as he realized his head was braced to be forced to turn where it normally couldn't. He gasped, but only a wheeze came out. His fingers dug into the arm's thick muscle—

"Johnny! Johnny!"

The loud banging on the door startled them both. John felt Campbell's arm around his throat slacken, enough he could slip his hands in between to give him enough leverage to push the arm away. 

" _He's in here, Roy!_ "

With an elbow—or two, at this point, everything was a blur—John shoved Campbell back. He caught a glimpse of a square jaw, dark slitted eyes and a scar that went from his jaw and disappeared into the neckline of his black shirt.

John stared at him, taken aback. The face taunted him. He think he's seen it many times before. The fire. At Rampart. 

"I saw you," John whispered, unable to stop himself.

Campbell shrugged. "Hazards of the job," he murmured. "Now hold still. I'll be sure it's quick."

John swallowed. He backpedaled as Campbell approached.

Just then, the sharp _thwack_ of an ax hit his door. An ax? John spared a disbelieving glance at his door. A crack already split his door. Another _thwack_ and John saw the door bend.

How many people were out there?

Campbell growled and lunged. John ducked. He grabbed John's shoulder. John yelped, twisted away and fell over his armchair.

"Johnny!" Unbelievably, the chopping intensified on the door. A plank popped free right down the center. The ax blade broke through the door.

Campbell muttered something under his breath. He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket.

"He's got a gun!" John hollered as soon as something black shone in Campbell's grip. "Roy, he's got a gun!"

The chopping paused then continued.

John grabbed the suitcase on the floor and swung it at Campbell's arm.

A bullet zipped past his ear.

" _Johnny_!"

"I'm okay!" Not really, because Campbell was turning all sorts of red as he stalked towards John. 

The couch that stood between them felt woefully inadequate, but at least the gun was knocked off...somewhere. 

Campbell vaulted over the couch before John saw him move. 

Arms around his middle, John found himself thrown into the coat rack. It crashed behind him into the window. The glass shattering almost drowned out Chet's groggy "What's going on?" and Roy's furious "Get off him!"

Winded, John swung a punch but it bounced off Campbell like it was nothing. He saw Chet's unsteady feet from the floor.

"'het!" John gasped as hands curled around his throat. "...'elp..."

Roy now had an arm through the door, slapping around for the doorknob as he shouted. "Chet! Over there! Grab him!"

Chet didn't question. He stumbled drunkedly towards Campbell and tackled him. Well, fell on him.

Campbell's hands were suddenly gone. John rolled to the side, coughing, trying to get air. He could hear Chet, slurring yet still sounding determined as he grappled with Campbell's legs.

Campbell stood up. He rose higher and higher before John. The man glanced down at Chet still wrestling with his ankles. Campbell's jaw flexed.

Before John could sit up, there was Roy. His partner jumped over the fallen couch, colliding with Campbell. The man toppled like a redwood by John's feet.

Campbell was cursing and writhing like a rattlesnake by the time John fumbled out the cord from his suitcase and tied his hands and feet. Oh well, he was gonna practice knot tying anyway. 

Done, Campbell was dragged into the bathroom Chet was in before. They locked it and for good measure, jammed the coat rack against the door.

And dragged John's dresser in front of the door. 

Along with his small bookcase. 

And the other armchair. 

Finished, they collapsed into the couch. After setting it back upright first.

John sat there, arms flung out to his sides, wheezing as he stared at the ceiling.

"Chet, you okay?" Roy asked somewhere to his right.

"That guy clocked me," Chet groaned. "Ouch, knock it off, Roy!" 

John raised his head and blinked at the three Roys wavering in front of him. "Concussion?"

A hand slipped to the back of his head. John hissed at the knot Roy found.

"You asking about Chet or yourself? How many fingers do I have?"

John grinned crookedly at Roy because staring at that many wiggly fingers was going to make him throw up. "Ten," he announced. Then he frowned.

"We should call Dispatch."

"Don't worry," Roy said wryly, "I think half of LA County was right behind me—"

"Freeze!"

"Hi, Vince!" John and Chet chorused. Roy snorted.

Vince was a fuzzy dark spot as he stood over them. "You guys alright?"

"He tried to kill Roy again," John told the Vince spot solemnly. "Then he had to go to the bathroom."

"Uh huh." Vince went to check. Then he radioed for Engine 51 for help because he couldn't even get to the door.

Roy went to call for an ambulance. Suddenly, there was a lot more people in his apartment. Hopefully not Cindy though. Man, his place was a mess!

John squinted at Roy as he drew back into focus. He scowled.

"What? What's wrong?" Roy swept hands over his head again. "You feel nauseous?"

John shook his head. Oh, bad idea. He gulped convulsively before he shot Roy a glare.

"Roy, where's your sling?"

Roy froze, considered and huffed out an "Ouch." He sagged back onto the couch next to John.

John let his head drop onto Roy's left shoulder. "Where'd you get the ax?"

"The fire box downstairs." Roy paused. "Sorry about your door."

"That's alright." John blinked sleepily at his overturned armchair. "You think that counts as a dark or a light?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

"Gage," Chet mumbled as he raised his head and considered the wreckage. He dropped his head back to the couch. "You sure got lousy taste."

John weakly flapped an arm over Roy, but couldn't quite reach Chet. Roy, with his eyes closed, wordlessly reached over and punched Chet in the arm.

"Thanks, pally."

"Anytime, junior."


	14. Chapter 14

"Still in the doghouse?"

Roy sighed. After Campbell's arrest, he had called Joanne to confess (ironically he had called from the police station). Joanne left the kids with her mother and came home. 

John had been checked back into Rampart and even though he was stuck with Morton (again) and a concussed Chet for a roommate, Roy considered him the lucky one compared to the cool reception he got when Joanne came home.

"Roy?"

Roy leaned out of the locker to give John a nod before he stuck his head back in. Darn it, he thought he had brought shoe polish in but he didn't see any in his locker. It was why they came in extra early for John's first shift back.

A whistle to his right caught his attention. Roy, head still in the locker looking for his elusive can of polish, wordlessly stretched an arm out towards his partner. John slapped his tin onto his waiting palm. Roy grunted his thanks as he straddled the bench. 

"I mean..." John fumbled. He offered a faint grin. "Your wife can't stay mad forever, right?" 

"Spaghetti," Roy reminded him. Even after finally admitting Mike's recipe _was_ better, Joanne had been mad at them both for weeks.

John's smile faded. He gulped visibly and sat inside his locker with his hands clasped over his knees. Then he jumped out, all nervous energy pent up from missing two shifts.

"I mean, it wasn't like it was, you know, on purpose." John hopped onto the bench and peered at the mirrors over the line of sinks.

"Shoot," John grumbled almost to himself. "This didn't wash out." 

John rubbed his thumb over a spot only he seemed to see. He looked down at his chest with a scowl before carefully pinning his badge and name tag on.

Roy's mouth flattened. The other shirts John had packed up and brought over were a lost cause. They had tried washing them. Joanne, too, but the smell lingered. The slipcovers were a goner, too. And from what Chet told the others, pretty much _everything_ in John's apartment were a loss.

John seemed more concerned about Joanne right now, though. He squinted at himself in the mirror over the sinks, brushing a palm over the broadcloth of his shirt. He jumped off the bench to duck back into his perch inside his locker.

Still trying to cheer Roy up, ever dogged in his belief that things are never that bad, John pressed on. 

"I mean, she looked alright this morning for breakfast."

But it was hard to forget Joanne's cool morning greeting to him before they left. It warmed a few degrees towards Johnny, but only after she caught him trying to hide a cough over a bite of waffles. She forgot she was mad at John for his part in Roy's deception. She fussed to get his partner a glass of water and lectured him on his eating habits, before swapping out his waffles for soothing cream of wheat. 

Roy looked over to John, who was waiting, looking anxious because he was staying with them for another two weeks until his place was fixed. 

"She's not mad at you. You didn't lie to her." 

Roy scrubbed furiously over his left boot. 

"But you were trying to protect her," John pointed out in a small voice.

Roy stopped brushing. He glowered halfheartedly at John. "You know that. I know that. _She_ knows that." Roy smeared some polish on his right boot now. "But it doesn't change the fact that I lied." He snapped out the rag and rubbed over the toe.

"Hey, partner, go easy with that. That has to last me the rest of the year," John joked weakly.

Roy glanced down. To his dismay, he had carved deep grooves into the tin. There was enough wax on his boot to polish the whole station's shoes.

"Darn it. Sorry," Roy sighed. He handed the tin back to John before he depleted everything. 

"It's alright," John reassured him. He offered Roy a lopsided grin. "I was only kidding." Nevertheless, Roy caught John scraping the polish that clung to the edges with his finger, nudging it back into the can before twisting the cap back on.

"Still down about that?" Roy asked. He sat back from his slouch over his boots.

John didn't ask what 'that' was. He smiled wanly and shrugged a shoulder. 

"Be better if the docs would sign me off for overtime," John muttered. He ducked his head into the locker but still, Roy heard the tiny cough he was trying to muffle into his shoulder.

"That's why," Roy pointed out. "Brackett said two weeks. You do all right in the checkup then, he'll okay full duty." When John didn't pull his head out of his locker, Roy grabbed one of his boots, reached over and nudged John's knee with it.

"Roy!" John squawked. He looked comical as he tried to twist around to check the back of his trousers. "These are my last pair!" He huffed, calming down when it looked like his uniform was unscathed.

Roy raised his hands in surrender at John's glower. "It's not like Brackett said you couldn't fight fires, just that he didn't want you to be more exposed than you already are."

John mumbled something before he turned around to sit inside his locker.

"What?"

For a moment, it looked like John was going to pretend he didn't say anything but he glanced over to Roy. His shoulders slumped further.

"I said. I wouldn't be fighting fires without any gear," John fumbled. "And...and...well, it looks like I'm not going to be able to pay you back next—What?"

Roy realized he was smiling the whole time Johnny was talking. He swallowed his grin. "Oh." He lifted a shoulder. "I told you. Don't worry about it."

"But..."

Roy shrugged. "Don't worry about your gear."

"But even if I get the coats replaced, Marco's spare helmet was a goner. I gotta get him back his spare, two for me and I don't even know where Chet's fancy gloves went and..."

Sighing, Roy shot his partner an exasperated look. "Look, it's being handled."

"But how?" John sat so close to the edge of his locker, it looked like he was going to spring out of it like a Jack-in-a-Box. "Even if headquarters okay me using borrowed gear, there was everybody else's gear I have to replace because the guys can't go without spares and the Chief said..."

Roy threw up his hands. 

"You know what? Let's go." Roy tugged on his boots, checked the laces before he waved impatiently to John. "Come on. Up and at 'em."

"What? Wait. Roy, didn't you hear what I just—where are we going?" Nevertheless, John followed him out of the locker room and to the common area. "Hey, Dwyer," he absently greeted B shift's paramedic having coffee. He blinked when he realized everyone else was here early as well. But he recovered, fixated on Roy again.

"Roy. Wait, Roy..."

As soon as Roy spotted Chet, sitting at the kitchen table with the paper, he gave him a light punch on the shoulder.

"Are you going to tell him or not?" Roy demanded. He grinned as he stuck his thumb over his shoulder towards John. "Will you put him out of his misery already?"

"What? What?" John glared at Chet then at Marco by the coffee pot, snickering as he poured Cap a cup.

Dwyer snorted as he swatted the paper Chet held up over his face. "Come on, Kelly. Junior here is jumping out of his skin."

" _Junior_?" John growled. "Chet, I told you—"

A sharp whistle cut John off. Cap leaned against the counter, cradling his coffee cup. He took a sip, eyed Marco until he gulped back his smirk. He then dragged his gaze over to Mike, who promptly turned off the television.  
Cap cleared his throat and stared meaningfully at the back of Chet's head.

The paper drooped and Chet's sheepish grin popped through.

"Aw, I was planning to let Gage..."

"Kelly."

"Yes, sir." Chet sighed. He got up, cleared his throat behind a fist. 

"On behalf of the LA—"

Marco tossed a dish towel at him.

Chet threw up his hands.

"Fine! No sense of ceremony here! We should honor—"

It wasn't clear who threw the other rag that landed on Chet's head.

Chet peeled the towel off his head. He sauntered over to John, who tracked him warily. To Roy's amusement, John checked the ceiling for any water balloons.

Whistling to himself as he dug into his back pocket, Chet pulled out a folded envelope that was stuffed, bound with a rubber band to keep it from bursting.

With a flourish, Chet slapped the envelope on Johnny's chest.

"Remember, my gloves were from—"

"That guy in Pomona. I know. But Chet, I—What is this?"

John's mouth dropped open at the wad of bills in the envelope. He shot Roy a guilty look.

"Guys. Listen, I appreciate this but I can't accept this from you guys! I—"

"It's not from us," Cap interrupted. "Chet let the word out at your building about your gear and your neighbors wanted to do something for the fireman who got them out."

Roy punched John lightly on the shoulder. He grinned at John's wide-eyed expression. "They had bake sales, yard sales while you were back in Rampart."

"B-bake sales?" John stammered.

Chet hummed. "Your neighbor Cindy makes a nice apple pie." He patted his stomach.

John's head whipped towards Chet. "Cindy?"

Chet smirked, patted his belly once more. "Marco liked her brownies."

Marco chuckled but nodded with a faraway expression. "Cindy had very nice..." At Cap's cough, he finished with, "cupcakes." Marco shrugged with a crooked grin.

Whatever annoyance John had with them faded when he looked down at the money again. "I..."

Roy gently elbowed him. "See? Told you not to worry about the gear."

John was still stammering his thanks when a new voice sounded in the room.

"Well, guess they won't be calling you DeSoto any more, Gage." Detective Crockett stepped in, hands in his pockets. Barton, fortunately, was nowhere to be seen. Good, Roy still had the overwhelming urge to punch him.

"Oh no." Johnny blanched. "Campbell escaped?"

Chet cupped the back of his head and grimaced.

Crockett, smiling, shook his head. "No, no. In fact, Campbell is already on his way in front of a judge this morning. He gave a full confession to Barton so there's no need for you two to testify."

"Oh." John flicked a look to Roy. He rubbed a finger under his nose as he shifted from foot to foot. "We weren't, you know, worried about that, but, that's good. Great." He caught Crockett eying the envelope in his hands. 

John started.

"Oh no, this isn't a bribe!" Johnny yelped.

Cap slapped a hand over his face.

Crockett chuckled. "I hope not, Gage." He paused before pulling out an envelope of his own out of his jacket. "Oh, this isn't a bribe either."

John gave Crockett a puzzled frown before he peered into the envelope and the slip of paper inside. He started.

"Roy," John choked out. 

Looking over John's shoulder, Roy saw it was a check, typed out from the US Marshals, for...Roy whistled as he eyed the total.

"There was a reward for Campbell's arrest," Crockett explained as Chet leaned over to see too. 

"Hey, Gage, that should be enough to replace all that crummy furniture of yours," Chet whistled. He rubbed his hands together. "And to get me these other gloves from this guy in Fullerton—"

"What about Pomona?" Roy smirked.

"Aw, that guy does shoddy work. Now the guy in Fullerton..."

Crockett shook hands with everyone before taking his leave. Dwyer, his shift now over, waved his goodbyes. 

John sat on the couch with a slight dazed expression on his face, the two envelopes clutched in his hand.

Marco nodded towards John. Roy nodded to him and Mike as they trotted out to wash the engine. Chet was walking with Cap, who nodded absently as Chet told him about the fine qualities of the gloves from Fullerton.

Quietly, Roy sat down next to John. He waited.

"I was all ready to eat peanut butter sandwiches for the rest of the year," John said finally.

Roy made a face. "Like Joanne and I would let that happen again." He nudged John's knee with his. "Peanut butter was your favorite."

"Peanut butter was my favorite," John repeated, agreeing. He stared at the envelopes in his fist. His Adam's apple bobbed. "This...I mean..." He twisted towards Roy.

"You know," John told him very seriously, "Half this reward money should go to you. I mean, Campbell was out to get you really and you went after him even though—"

"No," Roy cut him off. "He came after _you_. He was never out to get me. He heard my name called out that day, but saw _you_ in the paper." Roy slumped into the couch. 

"I was never in danger." Roy gulped. His stomach knotted as he remembered chopping through John's door, seeing John curled on his side, coughing, choking, just like when Campbell had locked him in that death trap of a room. Johnny had looked like he was in so much agony then, coughing so hard, he had to be carried out of the fire because he could no longer stand. And Morton had barred Roy from the treatment room at first, but Roy knew when they let him in finally that Johnny had stopped breathing at one point. 

All because of him, all because of one coat and one lousy newspaper article.

"Guess you were having a pretty bad week," Roy joked weakly. He lowered his eyes to his knees.  
John was quiet for a beat.

"Well...." John coughed. "John _DeSoto_ was having a pretty bad week." He tapped the envelopes on Roy's knee. "John Gage though, was pretty lucky." He grinned lopsided. 

Roy stared at John before he felt the corners of his mouth tick upwards. "Yeah, I guess so." Something loosened in his gut. "Yeah, John Gage was pretty darn lucky last week."

Johnny flapped the envelopes at him. "Roy DeSoto could be, too."

"Nope." Roy firmly nudged them away. "That's all yours."

"Aw, Roy." John brightened. "Hey. I know! I got it! I got it!"

Roy pretended to lean away from his partner vibrating with worrying excitement. "Whatever it is, don't give it to me."

"Funny, Roy."

"Yup, that's me. The comedian."

"Roy. Listen." John shook the envelope Crockett gave him. "If you won't take half, at least let me get you the biggest bunch of roses!"

"Oh Johnny, you shouldn't have," Roy drawled. He chuckled when John shoved him. He shoved back. "Alright! Alright! What are the roses for?"

"For Joanne!" John waved towards the payphone and the telephone book. "We get her a huge bouquet, okay? Okay? And maybe one of those boxes of chocolates, alright? You sign your name on a card and get some guy in a fancy uniform to deliver them. Roy! It'll be great!"

Roy mulled it over. Joanne did have a soft spot for roses. "She likes the chocolate ones with the caramel insides," he said slowly.

"Well, get her that! Get the biggest box they have! Get her _two_!" John was practically bouncing on the couch now. "What do you say?"

Roy smiled. "Okay. Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Thanks."

John grinned. He looked like he wanted to do a victory dance.

"Although..." Roy hedged. "You should get a bunch of roses for someone else."

John's brow knitted. "Huh? Who?"

Roy smirked as he edged off the couch. "Morton."

Roy leaped off the couch, just as John yelped, outraged. But before John could retaliate, the tones rang out.

_"Station 51. Truck 8. Warehouse fire. 435 Palson Bouvelard. Four three five Palson. Time out 1017."_

Roy tossed John the new turnout gear coat he had hid in the squad. John whooped as he slipped it on, _Fireman Gage_ stenciled new and black and solid on his back. He slid over to his side of the squad.

There was a _click_ in Roy's mind the moment John got in and shut the door. 

"Ready?" John asked cheerfully as he brushed a hand down the stiff new coat. "All set, pally?"

As the sirens blared and the garage doors opened, Roy replied, "Ready, Junior."

And this time, John didn't correct him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Acknowledgements:** I would like to thank the Acad—okay, maybe not (LOL). I do wish to thank LdyAnne, who went through several versions of this story even as it grew from a wee story to what you see today. Patience, enthusiasm, and a dedicated red pen went into this fic. Oh, I had some part in this too. LOL.
> 
>  **Many Thanks:** To a certain trainee. Thank you for sharing with me what it entails. Good luck with the academy!
> 
>   
>  _Dear firefighters: Thank you._   
> 


End file.
